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A  COMPETENT  CRITIC 

I      Has  remarked  of  "East  Lynne," 

By  the  Author  op  this  VoLtJME, — 

"  It  is  the  Author's  masterpiece,  and  siands  in  the  very 
front  rank  of  all  the  works  of  fiction  ever  ^vritten  ;  it 
has  scarcely  a  rival  as  a  brilliant  creation  of  lite- 
rarj^ genius,  and  is  prominent  among  the  very  few 
works  of  its  class  that  have  stood  the  test  of 
time,  and  achieved  a  lasting  reputation.    In 
originality  ol    design,  and   masterly  and 
dramatic   development  of   the  subject, 
it  stands  unrivaled ;    it  will  be  read 
and  rc-rcad  long  after  the  majority 
of  the  ephemeral  romances  of  to- 
day have  passed   out  of  exist- 
ence and  beett  forgotten." 


Sold  everywhere  and  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  on 
receipt  of  price, 

BY 

G.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

New  York. 


POPULAR   BOOKS 

IN  TUIB 

NE'V^     S  E  HIE  S, 


1. — The  Ladies'  and  Gentlemen's  Etiquette 
Book  of  the  Best  Societt. — A  Guide  to 
True  Politeness. — By  Mrs.  Jane  Aster. 

2. — Undek  the  Rose. — By  the  author  of  "  East 
L3'nne."—*—" She's  a  Woman;  therefore 
to  be  Won." 

3. — Love  and  Maruiage. — Celibacy,  Wedded 
Life,  The  Ruling  Passion,  and  Impedimenta 
to  Marriage. — By  Frederic  Saunders. 

4. — Guide  to  Accojiplishments  in   Conteii- 

SATION,      LeTTEU-WuITING,      AND     SPEECH- 

Making. — By  Mrs.  Jane  Aster. 
5.— So  Dear  a  Dream.— A  charming  Novel  by 
Maria  M.  Grant,    author  of   "Sun   Maid," 
"  Sorry  Her  Lot,  who  loves  too  well,"  etc. 


Xheae  books  aro  for  sale  by  aU  Booksellers,  and  will  bo 

»ent  by  mail,  poUage  free,  on  receipt  of  price, 

by 

G.  W,  CARLETON  Sc  CO.,  Publlsbers, 
Neiv   York. 


UNDEK   THE   EOSE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 

"EAST     LYNNE." 


*•  She's  beautiful ;  and  therefore  to  be  wooed  ; 
Bhe  is  a  woman  ;  therefore  to  be  won." 

SMTcspeare,  Henry  VL 


^ 


NEW    YORK  : 

Copyrisht,  1873,  by 

G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co.,  Publishers, 

LONDON  :    S.    LOW   &   CO. 
MDCCCLXXIX. 


CONTENTS. 


vAtn 
I.  Losing  Lena 7 

II.  Finding  Both  op  Them 27 

III.  Wolfe  Barrington's  Taming 43 

IV.  Major  Parrifer 70 

V.  Coming  Home  to  Him , 91 

VI.  Lease,  the  Pointsman 113 

VII.  Aunt  Dean 13G 

VIII.  Going  through  the  Tunnel "lol 

IX.  Dick  Mitchel 1S3 

X.  A  Hunt  by  Mooniight 204 

XI.  The  Beginning  of  the  End 224 

XII.  Jerry's  Gazette 247 

XIIL  Sophie  Chalk 275 

XTV.  At  Miss  Deveen's 2P1 

XV    The  Game  Fii.'isniiD 333 

XVI.  Going  to  the  Mop 346 

XVII.  Breaking  Down 371 


2138899 


I. 


^3^^^ 


LOSING  LENA. 


vX.- 


>ie^ 


'^'^^E  lived  chiefly  at  Dyke  Manor.  A  fine  old  place,  so 
fev^j  close  upon  the  borders  of  "Warwickshire  and  Wor- 
'sS^'^  cestershire,  that  raanv  people  did  not  know  which 
of  the  two  counties  it  was  really  in.  The  house 
was  in  Warwickshire,  but  some  of  the  land  was  in  Worcester- 
shire, The  Squire  had,  however,  another  estate,  Crabb  Cot, 
all  in  Worcestershire,  and  very  many  miles  nearer  to  Wor 
cester. 

Squire  Todhetley  was  rich.  But  he  lived  in  the  plain, 
good  old-fashioued  way  that  his  forefathers  had  lived ;  almost 
a  homely  way,  it  might  be  called,  in  contrast  with  the  show 
and  parade  springing  up  of  late  years.  He  was  respected  by 
everybody,  and  though  hot-headed  and  impetuous,  he  was 
simple-minded,  open-handed,  and  had  as  good  a  heart  as  any- 
body ever  had  in  this  world.  An  elderl^y  gentleman  now, 
was  he,  of  middle  height,  with  a  portly  form  and  a  red  face  ; 
and  his  hair,  what  was  left  of  it,  consisted  of  a  few  scanty 
lightish  locks,  standing  up  straight  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

The  Squire  had  married,  but  not  very  early  in  life.  His 
wife  died  in  a  few  years,  leaving  one  child  only  ;  a  son, 
named  after  his  father,  Joseph.  Young  Joe  was  just  the 
pride  of  the  Manor  and  of  his  fathers  heart. 

I,  writing  this,  am  Johnny  Ludlow.     And  you  will  natur 
ally  want  to  hear  what  I  did  at  Dyke  Manor,  and  why  1 
lived  there. 

About  three  miles'  distance  from  the  Manor  was  a  place 


8  I-OSLSrO    LENA. 

called  the  Court.  Not  a  property  of  so  much  importance  as 
the  Manor,  but  u  nice  place,  for  all  that.  It  belonged  to  nij' 
father,  \7illi:un  Ludlow.  lie  and  Squire  l\>dhetley  were 
g(»od  Iriends.  I  was  the  only  chikl,  just  as  Tod  was ;  and, 
like  him,  I  had  lost  my  mother.  They  had  christened  me 
.lolm,  but  always  called  me  Johnny,  I  can  remember  many 
incidents  of  my  eai-ly  life  now,  but  I  cannot  recall  to  iny 
mind  my  mother.  She  must  have  died— at  least  I  fancy  so — 
when  I  was  two  years  old. 

One  raorning,  two  years  after  that,  when  I  was  about  four, 
the  servants  told  me  I  had  a  new  mamma.  I  can  see  her  now 
as  sl?e  l(.)oked  when  she  came  home  :  tall  and  thin  and  upright, 
with  a  long  face,  pinched  nose,  a  meek  expression,  and  gentle 
voice.  She  was  a  ]\Iiss  Marks,  who  used  to  play  the  organ  at 
church,  and  had  hardly  any  income  at  all.  Hannah  said  she 
was  sure  she  was  thirty-five  if  she  was  a  day — she  was  talk 
ing  to  Eliza  while  she  dressed  me— and  they  both  agreed  that 
she  would  probably  turn  out  to  be  a  Tartar,  and  that  the 
master  might  have  chosen  better.  I  understood  quite  well 
that  they  meant  papa,  and  asked  why  he  might  have  chosen 
better;  upon  which  they  shook  me  and  said  they  had  not 
been  speaking  of  my  papa  at  all,  but  of  the  old  blacksmith 
romid  the  corner.  Hannah  brushed  my  hair  the  wj-ong  wa}'-, 
and  Eliza  went  off  to  see  to  her  bedrooms.  Children  are 
easily  prejudiced:  and  they  prejudiced  me  against  my  new 
mother.  Looking  at  her  by  the  improved  eyes  of  maturer 
yeai's,  I  know  that  though  she  might  be  poor  in  pocket,  she 
was  good  and  kindly,  and  eveiy  inch  a  lad}'. 

Papa  (lied  that  same  year.  At  the  end  of  another  year, 
Mrs.  Lndlow,  n)y  step-mother,  married  Squire  Todhetley,  and 
we  went  to  live  at  Dyke  Manor ;  she,  I,  and  my  nurse  Ilau- 
Dali.     The  Court  was  let  for  a  term  of  years  to  the  Stei-lings. 

Young  Joe  did  not  like  the  new  arrangements,  lie  was 
older  than  I,  coidd  take  up  prejudices  more  strongly,  and  ho 
took  a  mighty  sti'ong  one  against  the  new  Mrs.  Todhetley. 
He  had  been   regularly  indulged  by  his  father  and  spoilt  by 


LOSING   LENA.  9 

all  the  servants  ;  so  it  was  only  to  be  expected  tliat  he  would 
not  like  the  invasion.  Mrs.  Todhetley  introduced  order  into 
the  profuse  househokl,  hitherto  governed  by  the  servants. 
Thev  and  vouno-  Joe  equallv  resented  it:  tliev  refused  to  see 
that  thino-s  were  reallv  more  comfortable  than  thev  used  to 
be,  and  at  half  the  cost. 

Two  babies  came  to  the  Manor  ;  Hugh  first,  Lena  ne.'ct. 
Joe  and  I  were  sent  to  school.  He  was  as  big  as  a  house, 
*  nipared  with  nie,  tall  and  strong  and  dark,  with  an  im2-)eri- 
ous  way  and  will  of  his  own.  I  was  fair,  gentle,  timid,  yield- 
ing to  liim  in  all  things.  His  was  the  master  spirit,  swaying 
mine  at  will.  At  school  the  boys  at  once,  the  very  first  day 
we  entered,  shortened  his  name  from  Todhetley  to  Tod.  1 
caught  the  habit,  and  from  that  time  I  never  called  him  any- 
thin<T  else. 

And  so  the  years  went  on.  Tod  and  I  at  school  being 
drilled  into  learnins: ;  Huo-h  and  Lena  growino-  into  nice 
little  children.  During  the  holidays  hot  war  waged  between 
Tod  and  his  step-mother.  At  least  silent  war.  Mrs.  Todhet- 
ley was  always  kind  to  him,  and  she  never  quarrelled ;  but 
Tod  opposed  her  in  many  things,  and  would  be  generally  sar- 
castically cool  to  her  in  manner. 

AVe  did  lead  the  children  into  mischief,  and  she  com- 
plained of  that.  Tod  did,  that  is,  and  of  course  I  followed 
where  he  led.  "  But  we  can't  let  Hugh  grow  up  a  milksop, 
3'ou  know,  Johnny,"  he  would  say  to  me ;  "  and  he  would  if 
left  to  his  mother."  So  Huirh's  clothes  in  Tod's  hands  came 
to  grief,  and  Hugh  himself  sometimes.  Hannah,  who  was 
the  children's  nurse  now,  stormed  and  scolded  over  it :  she 
jmd  Tod  had  ever  been  at  daggers  drawn  with  each  other  ;  and 
Mrs.  Todhetley  would  implore  Tod  with  tears  in  her  eyes  to 
oe  careful  with  the  child.  Tod  a23peared  to  turn  a  deaf  ear, 
and  marched  off  Math  Hugh  before  their  very  eyes.  He 
really  loved  the  children,  and  would  have  saved  them  from 
injury  M'ith  his  life.  The  Squire  drove  and  rode  his  fine 
horses.     Mrs.  Todhetley  had  set  up  a  low  basket- chaise  drawn 


10  LOSING    LENA. 

by  a  mild  she-donkey :  it  was  safer  for  the  children,  she  said. 
Tod  went  into  fits  whenever  he  met  the  turn-ont. 

But  Tod  was  not  always  to  escape  scot-free,  or  incite  the 
children  to  rel)ellion  with  impunity.  There  came  a  day  when 
he  brou^'ht  himself;  through  it,  to  a  state  of  repentance  and 
self-torture. 

It  occurred  when  we  were  at  home  for  the  summer  holidays, 
just  after  the  crop  of  hay  was  got  in,  and  the  bare  fields  look- 
ed as  white  in  the  blazing  sun  as  if  they  had  been  scorched. 
Tod  and  1  were  in  the  three-cornered  meadow  next  the  fold- 
yard,  lie  was  making  a  bat-net  with  gauze  and  two  sticks. 
Young  Jacobson  had  shown  ns  his  the  previous  day,  and  a  bat 
he  caught  with  it ;  and  Tod  thought  he  would  catch  bats  too. 
But  he  did  not  seem  to  be  making  much  hand  at  the  net,  and 
somehow  managed  to  send  the  pointed  end  of  the  stick  through 
a  corner  of  it. 

"  I  don't  think  that  gauze  is  strong  enough,  Tod." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not,  Johnny.  Here,  catch  hold  of  it.  I'll 
go  indoors,  and  see  if  they  can't  find  me  some  better.  Hannah 
must  have  some." 

He  flew  off  past  the  ricks,  and  leaped  the  little  gate  into  the 
fold-yard — a  tall,  strong  fellow,  who  nu'ght  leap  the  Avon.  In 
a  few  minutes  1  heard  his  voice  again,  and  went  to  meet  him. 
Tod  was  coming  away  from  the  house  with  Lena. 

"  Have  you  the  gauze,  Tod  ? " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  that  old  cat  won't  look  for  any ;  says  sho 
hasn't  time.     I'll  hinder  her  time  a  little.     Come  along,  Lena." 

The  "old  cat"  was  Hannah.  1  told  you  she  and  he  were 
often  at  daggers  drawn.  Hannah  had  a  chronic  complaint, 
ill-temper,  and  Tod  called  her  names  to  her  face.  U])on  ga 
iug  in  to  ask  her  for  the  gauze,  he  found  her  dressing  Hugh 
and  Lena  to  go  out,  and  she  just  turned  him  out  of  the  nur- 
ser}',  and  told  him  not  to  i>other  her  then  with  his  gauze  and 
his  Avants.  Lena  ran  after  Tod  ;  she  liked  him  better  than  all 
of  us  put  together.  She  had  on  a  blue  silk  frock,  and  a  white 
straw  hat  with  daisies  round  it ;  open- worked  stvxikings  were 


LOSING    LENA.  11 

on  her  pretty  little  legs.     By  which  we  saw  she  was  about  to 
be  taken  out  for  show. 

"  AVliat  are  you  going  to  do  with  her,  Tod  ? " 

"  I'm  going  to  hide  her,"  answered  Tod,  in  his  decisive  voice* 
"  Keep  where  you  are,  Johnny." 

Lena  enjoyed  the  rebellion.  In  a  minute  or  two  Tod  came 
back  alone.  He  had  left  her  between  the  ricks  in  the  three- 
cornered  held,  and  told  her  not  to  come  out.  Then  he  went 
off  to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  I  stood  inside  the  barn,  talk- 
inor  to  Mack,  who  was  hammerino-  awav  at  the  iron  of  the  cart- 
wheel.  Out  came  Hainiah  by-and-by.  She  had  been  dressing 
herself  as  well  as  Hugh. 

"  Miss  Lena !  " 

Xo  answer.  Hannah  called  again,  and  then  came  up  the 
fold-yard,  looking  about. 

"  Master  Johnny,  have  you  seen  the  child  ?  " 

"  What  child  ? "  I  was  not  going  to  spoil  Tod's  sport  by 
telling  her. 

"  Miss  Lena.  She  has  got  off  somewhere,  and  ray  mistresa 
is  waiting  for  lier  in  the  basket-chaise." 

"  I  see  her  just  now  along  of  Master  Joseph,"  spoke  up 
Mack,  arresting  his  noisy  hammer. 

"  See  her  where  ? "  asked  Hannah. 

"  Close  here,  a  going  that  way." 

He  pointed  with  the  hammer  to  the  palings  and  gate  tuat 
divided  the  yard  from  the  three-cornered  held.  Hannah  ran 
there  and  stood  lookino-  over.  The  ricks  were  within  a  short 
stone's  throw,  but  Lena  kept  close.  Hannah  called  out  again, 
and  threw  her  eyes  over  the  empty  field. 

"  The  child's  not  there.  Where  can  she  have  got  to,  tiro- 
Bome  little  thing:  ? " 

In  the  house,  and  about  the  house,  and  out  of  the  house,  aa 
the  old  riddle  says,  went  Hannah.     It  was  jolly  to  see  her. 
Mrs.  Todhetley  and  Hugh  were  seated  patiently  in  the  basket- 
chaise    before   the  hall-doo-,   wondering   what   made    Han 
nah  so  long.     Tod,  playing  with  the  mild  she-donkey's  ears. 


12  LOSING    LENA. 

and  laiif^hiiig  to  himself,  stood  talk: — '  ^'.'iciously  lO  his  step- 
mother.    1  went  round.     The  Squire  had  gone  riding  to  Eve 
eham  ;  Dwarf  Giles,  who  made  the  nattiest  little  groom  in  the 
county,  for  all  his  five-and-tliirty  years,  behind  him. 

"  I  can't  iind  Miss  Lena,"  cried  Hannah,  coming  out. 

"Not  find  Miss  Lena!  "echoed  Mrs.  Todhetley.  "What 
do  3'ou  mean,  Hannah  ?     Have  you  not  dressed  her?  " 

"  I  dressed  her  first,  ma'am,  before  Master  Hugh,  and  she 
Went  out  of  the  nursery.  I  can't  think  where  she  can  have 
got  to.     I've  searched  everywhere." 

"  But,  Hannah,  we  must  have  her  directly  ;  I  am  late  as  it  is." 

They  were  going  over  to  the  Court  to  a  children's  early 
party  at  the  Sterlings.  Mrs.  Todhetley  stepped  out  of  the 
basket-cliaise,  to  help  in  the  search. 

"  I  had  better  fetch  her.  Tod,"  I  whispered. 

He  nodded  yes.  Tod  never  bore  malice,  and  I  suppose  he 
thought  Hannah  had  had  enough  of  a  hunt  for  that  day.  I 
ran  through  the  fold-yard  to  the  ricks,  and  called  to  Lena. 

"  You  can  come  out  now,  little  stupid." 

But  no  Lena  answered.  There  Avere  seven  ricks  in  a  group, 
and  I  went  into  all  the  openings  between  them.  Lena  wa8 
not  there.  It  was  rather  odd,  and  I  looked  aci-oss  the  field 
and  towards  the  lane  and  the  coppice,  shouting  out  sturdily. 

"  Mack,  have  you  seen  Miss  Lena  pass  in-doors?"  I  stayed 
to  ask  him,  in  c;oin2;  back. 

No :  Mack  had  not  noticed  her ;  and  I  went  round  to  the 
front  again,  and  whispei'ed  to  Tod. 

"  What  a  muff  you  are,  Johnny  !  She's  between  the  ricks 
fast  enoun^h.  No  danger  that  she'd  come  out  when  I  told  her 
to  Stay ! " 

"  But  she's  not  there  indeed.  Tod.     You  go  and  look." 

Tod  vaulted  oif,  his  long  legs  seeming  to  take  fijiug  leapSj 
like  a  deer's,  on  his  way  to  the  ricks. 

To  make  short  of  the  story,  Lena  was  gone.  Lost.  The 
house,  the  out-door  buildings,  the  gardens  were  searched  foi 
Uer,  ajid  slie  was  not  to  be  found.    Mrs.  Todhetley's  fears  flew 


LOSING   LEXA.  13 

to  the  ponds  at  first ;  bat  it  was  impossible  she  could  have 
come  to  grief  in  either  of  the  two,  as  thej  were  both  in  view 
of  the  barn-door  where  I  and  Mack  had  been.  Tod  avowed 
that  lie  had  put  her  amid  the  ricks  to  hide;  and  it  was  not  to 
be  imagined  she  had  gone.  The  most  feasible  conjecture  was, 
that  she  had  run  from  between  the  ricks  when  Hannah  called 
to  her,  and  was  hiding  in  the  lane. 

Tod  was  in  a  fever,  loudly  threatening  Lena  with  unheard 
of  whippings,  to  cover  his  real  concern.     Hannah  looked  red 
Mrs.  Todhetley  white.    I  was  standing  by  him  when  the  cool 
came  np ;  a  sharp  woman,  with  red-brown  eyes.      We  called 
her  Molly. 

"  Mr.  Joseph,"  said  she,  "  I  have  heard  of  gipsies  stealing 
children." 

"AYell?"  returned  Tud. 

"  There  was  one  at  the  door  a  while  agone — an  insolent  one^ 
too.     Perhaps  Miss  Lena " 

"Which  way  did  she  go? — which  door  was  she  at?"  burst 
forth  Tod. 

"  'Twas  a  man,  sir.  He  come  up  to  the  kitchen-door,  and 
steps  inside  as  bold  as  brass,  askiug  me  to  buy  some  wooden 
skewers  he'd  cut,  and  saying  something  about  a  sick  child. 
When  I  told  him  to  march,  that  we  never  encouraged  tramps 
here,  he  wanted  to  answer  me,  and  I  just  shut  the  door  in  hia 
face.  A  regular  gipsy,  if  ever  I  see  one,"  cuntinned  Molly  ^ 
"  his  skin  tawny  and  his  wild  hair  jet-black.  Maybe,  in  re- 
venge, he  have  stole  off  the  little  miss." 

Tod  took  up  the  notion,  and  his  face  turned  white.  "  Don't 
Bay  anything  of  this  to  Mrs.  Todhetley,"  he  said  to  Molly.  "  We 
must  just  scour  the  country." 

But  in  departing  from  the  kitchen-door,  the  gipsy  man 
could  not  by  any  possibility  l^a^•e  made  his  way  to  the  rick- 
iield  direct  without  jroino-  throui>-li  the  f old-vard.  And  he  had 
not  done  that.  It  was  true  that  Lena  mio-ht  have  run  round 
and  got  in  the  gijjsy's  way.  Unfortunately,  none  of  the  men 
were  about,  except  Mack  and  old  Thomas.    Tod  sent  these  off 


I4r  LOSING    LENA. 

ill  different  directions ;  Mrs.  Todlietlej  drove  away  in  her  pony 
chaise  to  tlie  lanes  around,  saying  the  child  might  have  strayed 
there;  Molly  and  the  maids  started  elsewhere;  and  I  and  Tod 
went  flying  along  a  bye-road  that  branched  olf  in  a  line,  as  it 
were,  from  the  kitchen-door.  Nobody  could  keep  up  with 
Tod,  he  went  so  fast ;  and  I  was  not  tall  and.  stror.g  as  he  was 
But  I  saw  what  Tod  in  his  haste  did  not  see — a  dark  man 
with  some  bundles  of  skewers  and  a  stout  stick,  walking  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hedge.     I  whistled  Tod  back  ajjaiu. 

"  What  is  it,  Johnny  'i  "  he  said,  panting.  "  Have  you  seen 
her?" 

"  Not  her.  But  look  there.  That  must  be  the  man  Molly 
Bpoke  of." 

Tod  crashed  through  the  hedge  as  if  it  had  been  so  many 
cobwebs,  and  accosted  the  gipsy.  I  followed  moi-e  carefully, 
but  got  my  face  scratched. 

"  Were  you  up  at  the  great  house,  begging,  a  short  while 
ago  ? "  demanded  Tod,  in  an  awful  passion. 

The  man  turned  round  on  Tod  with  a  face  of  brass.  I  say 
brass,  because  he  did  it  so  independently ;  but  it  was  not  au 
insolent  face  in  itself ;  rather  a  sad  one,  and  vei'y  sickly. 

"  What's  that  you  ask  me,  master  ? " 

"  I  ask  whether  it  was  you  who  were  at  the  Manor-honso 
just  now,  begging?"  fiercely  repeated  Tod. 

"  I  was  at  a  big  house  offering  wares  for  sale,  if  you  mean 
that,  sir.     I  wasn't  bee-o-ino^." 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,"  said  Tod,  growing  white  again. 
"What  have  you  done  with  the  little  girl? " 

For,  you  see.  Tod  had  fully  caught  up  the  impression  that 
the  gipsy  Afffi^  stolen  Lena,  and  bespoke  in  accordance  with  it. 

''  I've  seen  no  little  girl,  master." 

"  You  ha^•e,"  and  Tod  gave  his  foot  a  stamp.  "  AVliat  have 
)'0u  done  with  her? " 

The  man's  only  answer  was  to  turn  round  and  walk  off,  mut- 
tering to  himself.  Tod  pursued  him,  calling  him  a  thief  and 
other  names ;  but  nothing  more  satisfactory  could  he  get. 


LOSING   LENA.  It 

"  Re  can't  have  taken  her,  Tod.  If  he  had,  she'd  be  with 
bim  now.     He  couldn't  eat  her,  j'ou  know." 

"  He  mav  have  given  her  to  a  confederate." 

"  AVliat  to  do  ?     What  do  gipsies  steal  children  for  ? " 

Tod  stojjped  in  a  passion,  lifting  his  hand.  "  If  j'ou  tor- 
ment me  with  these  frivolous  questions,  Johnny,  I'll  strike  you. 
t-low  do  I  know  what's  done  with  stolen  children  ?  Sold,  per- 
haps. I'd  give  a  hundred  pounds  out  of  my  pocket  at  thia 
minute  if  I  knew  where  those  gipsies  were  encamped." 

"We  suddenly  lost  the  fellow.  Tod  had  been  keeping  him 
in  sight  in  the  distance.  Whether  he  disappeared  up  a  gum- 
tree,  or  into  a  rabbit-hole,  Tod  couldn't  tell ;  but  gone  he  was. 

Up  this  lane,  down  that ;  over  that  moor,  across  this  com- 
mon ;  so  raced  Tod  and  I.  And  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and 
we  had  changed  our  direction  a  dozen  times:  which  possibly 
was  not  wise. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  as  we  passed  Ragley  gates,  for  we 
had  finally  got  into  the  Alcester  road.  Tod  was  going  to  do 
what  we  ought  to  have  done  at  first :  report  the  loss  at  Alcsster. 
Somebody  came  riding  along  on  a  stumpy  pony.  It  proved 
to  be  Gruff  Blossom,  groom  to  the  Jacobsons.  They  called  him 
"  Gruff "  because  of  his  temper.  He  did  touch  his  hat  to  us, 
which  was  as  much  as  you  could  say,  and  spurred  the  stumpy 
animal  on.  But  Tod  made  a  sio-n  to  him,  and  he  was  oblis^ed 
to  stop  and  listen. 

"  The  gipsies  stole  off  little  Miss  Lena ! "  cried  old  Blossom, 
coming  out  of  his  gruffness.  "  That's  a  rum  go  ?  Ten  to  one 
if  j-ou  find  her  for  a  year  to  come." 

"  But,  Blossom,  what  do  they  do  with  the  children  they 
steal  ? "  I  asked,  in  a  sort  of  ag-onv. 

"  They  cuts  their  hair  off  and  dyes  their  skins  brown,  and 
then  takes  'em  out  to  fairs  a  ballad-singing,"  answered  Blos- 
som. 

"  But  why  need  they  do  it,  when  they  have  children  of  theii 
own  ? " 

"Ah,  well,  that's  a  question  I  couldn't  answer,"  said  olc 


IG  LOSING   LENA. 

Blossom.  "  Maybe  their'n  aren't  pretty  children — Miss  Lena. 
she  is  pretty." 

"•'  Have  yon  heard  of  any  gipsies  being  encamped  about 
here  ?  "    Tod  demanded  of  him. 

"  Not  hitely,  Mr.  Joseph.  Five  or  six  months  ago,  there  was 
a  lot  'camped  on  the  Markis's  grcjnnd.  They  warn't  there 
long." 

"  Can't  yon  ride  about,  Bhissom,  and  see  after  the  chikl  ?  " 
asked  Tod,  putting  something  into  his  hand. 

Old  Blossom  [)()cketed  it,  and  went  of  with  a  nod.  lie  was 
riding  about,  as  we  knew  afterwards,  for  liours.  Tod  made 
straight  for  the  police-station  at  Alcester,  and  told  his  tale. 
Not  a  soul  was  there  but  Jenkins,  one  of  the  men. 

•'  I  haven't  seen  no  suspicions  characters  about,"  said  Jen- 
kins, who  seemed  to  be  eating  something.  He  was  a  big  man, 
with  short  black  hair  combed  on  his  forehead,  and  he  had  a 
habit  of  turning  his  face  upwards,  as  if  looking  after  his  nose 
- — a  squai-e  ornament,  that  stood  up  straight. 

"  She  is  between  four  and  five  years  old  ;  a  very  pretty  child, 
with  blue  eyes  and  a  good  deal  of  curling  auburn  hair,"  said 
Tod,  who  was  getting  feverish. 

Jenkins  wrote  it  down — "Name,  Todhetley.  What  Chris- 
tian name  ? " 

"  Adalena,  called  '  Lena.'  " 

"Recollect  the  dress,  sir?" 

"  Pale  blue  silk  ;  straw  hat  with  wreath  of  daisies  round  it ; 
open-worked  white  stockings,  and  thin  black  shoes;  white 
drawers,  hnished  off  with  tatting  stuff,"  recounted  Tod,  as  if 
he  had  prepared  the  list  by  heart  coming  along. 

"  That's  bad,  that  dress  is,"  said  Jenkins,  putting  down  the 
pen. 

"Why  is  it  bad?" 

"'Cause  the  things  is  tempting.  Quite  half  the  children 
that  get  stole  is  stole  for  what  they've  got  upon  theii-  backs. 
Tramps  and  that  sort  will  run  a  risk  for  a  blue  silk,  specially 
if  it's  clean  and  ii-listeninc:,  that  thev'd  not  run  for  a  brown 


LOSING    LENA.  17 

holland  pinafore.  Aubum  curls  too,"  added  Jenkins,  shaking 
his  head ;  "that's  a  temptation  also,  I've  knowed  children 
Bent  back  home  with  bare  heads  afore  now.  Any  ornaments, 
8U-?" 

"  She  was  safe  to  have  on  her  little  gold  neck-chain  and 
cress.     The}"  arc  very  small,  Jenkins — not  worth  much." 

Jenkins  lifted  his  nose — not  in  disdain,  it  was  a  habit  he 
had.  Not  worth  much  to  you,  sir,  who  could  buy  such  any 
day,  but  an  uncommon  bait  to  professional  child-stealers. 
Were  the  cross  a  coral,  or  any  stone  of  that  sort?" 

"  It  was  a  small  gold  cross,  and  the  chain  was  thin.  They 
could  only  be  seen  when  her  cloak  was  off.  Oh,  I  forgot  the 
cloak ;  it  was  white  :  llama,  I  think  they  call  it.  She  was  go- 
ing to  a  child's  party. 

Some  more  questions  and  answers,  most  of  which  Jenkins  took 
down.  Handbills  were  to  be  printed  and  posted,  and  a  reward 
offered  on  the  morrow,  if  she  was  not  found  previously.  Then 
we  came  away;  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  at  the  station, 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  better.  Tod,  had  Jenkins  gone  out 
seekino;  her  and  tellino^  of  the  loss  abroad,  instead  of  waitins; 
to  write  all  that  down  ?  " 

"  Johnny,  if  we  don't  find  her  to-night,  I  shall  go  mad,"  was 
all  he  answered. 

He  went  back  down  Alcester  Street  at  a  rushing  walk — not 
a  run. 

"  Where  are  von  o-oino-  now?  "  I  asked. 

"I'm  going  up  hill  and  down  dale  till  I  find  that  gipsies'  en- 
campment.    You  can  go  on  home,  Johnny,  if  you  are  tired." 

I  had  not  felt  tired  till  we  were  in  the  police-station.  Ex- 
citement keeps  fatigue  o&.  But  I  was  not  going  to  give  in^ 
and  said  I  should  keep  with  him. 

•'  All  right,  Johnny." 

liefore  we  wore  clear  of  Alcester,  Budd  the  land-agent 
came  up.  He  M'as  turning  out  of  the  public-house  at  the  cor- 
uer.     It  was  dusk  then.     Tod  laid  hold  of  him. 

•'  Budd,  you  are  ab  )ut  always,  in  all  kinds  of  by-nor>ks  and 


18  LOSING    LENA. 

lanes :  can  you  tell  me  of  any  encampment  of  gipsies  between 
hei-e  and  the  Manor-house?" 

The  agent's  business  took  hira  abroad  a  great  deal,  vou  know 
into  the  I'ural  districts  around. 

"  Gipsies'  encampment?"  repeated  Budd,  giving  both  of  m 
a  stare.  "  There's  none  that  I  know  of.  In  the  spring,  a  lot  of 
them  had  tlie  imj)udence  to  squat  down  on  the  Marquis's " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  that,''  interrupted  Tod.  "  Is  there  notliing 
of  the  sort  about  now  ? " 

"I  saw  a  miserable  little  tent  to-day  up  Cookhill  way," 
said  Budd.  "  It  might  have  been  a  gipsy's  or  a  travelling  tin- 
ker's.    'Twasn't  of  much  account,  whichever  it  was." 

Tod  gave  a  sort  of  spring.  "  Whereabouts  ? "  was  all  he 
asked.  And  Budd  explained  where.  Tod  went  off  like  a 
shot,  and  I  after  him. 

If  you  are  familiar  with  Alcester,  or  have  visited  at  Kagley 
or  anything  of  that,  you  must  know  the  long  green  lane  lead- 
ing to  Cookhill  ;  it  is  dark  with  overhanging  trees,  and  up-hill 
all  the  way.  We  took  that  road — Tod  first,  and  I  last ;  and 
we  came  to  the  top,  and  turned  in  the  direction  Budd  had  de- 
scribed the  tent  to  be. 

It  was  not  to  be  called  dark  ;  the  nights  never  are  at  mid- 
summer; and  rays  from  the  bright  light  in  the  west  glimmered 
through  the  trees.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  coppice,  in  a  bit  of 
low  ground,  we  saw  the  tent,  a  little  mite  of  a  thing,  looking 
no  better  than  a  funnel  turned  upside  down.  Sounds  were 
heard  within  it,  and  Tod  put  his  linger  on  his  lip  while  he  lis- 
tened. But  we  were  too  far  off,  and  he  took  his  boots  off,  and 
crc])t  up  close. 

Sounds  of  wailing — of  somebody  in  pain.  But  that  Tod 
had  been  three  parts  out  of  his  senses  all  the  afternoon,  he 
mio-lit  have  known  at  once  that  thev  did  not  come  from  Lena, 
or  anv  one  so  youns'.  Words  Avere  mingled  with  them  in  a 
woman's  voice  ;  uncouth  in  its  accents,  nearly  non-understand- 
able in  its  language,  an  awful  sadness  in  its  tone. 

"  A  bit  longer  !  a  bit  longer,  Corry,  and  he'd  ha'  been  back 


LOSESTG    LENA.  19 

You  needn't  ha'  grudged  it  to  us.     Oh h !  if  ye  had  but 

waited  a  bit  longer  !  " 

I  don't  write  exactly  as  she  spoke  ;  I  shouldn't  know  how  tc 
spell  it :  we  made  a  guess  at  half  the  words.  Tod,  who  had 
grown  white  again,  put  on  his  boots,  and  lifted  up  the  opening 
of  the  tent. 

I  had  never  seen  any  scene  like  that ;  I  don't  suppose  I 
ghall  see  another.  About  a  foot  from  the  ground  was  a  raised 
surface  of  some  sort,  thickly  covered  with  dark-green  rushes, 
just  the  size  and  shape  of  a  gravestone.  A  little  child,  about 
as  old  as  Lena,  lay  on  it,  a  white  cloth  thrown  across  her,  just 
touching  the  white,  still  face.  A  torch,  blazing  and  smoking 
away,  was  thrust  into  the  ground  and  lighted  up  the  scene. 
Whiter  the  face  looked  now,  because  it  had  been  tawny  in 
life.  I'd  rather  see  one  of  our  faces  dead  than  a  gipsy's.  The 
contrast  between  the  white  face  and  dress  of  the  child,  and  the 
green  bed  of  rushes  it  lay  on  was  something  remarkable.  A 
young  woman,  dark  too,  and  handsome  enough  to  create  a  com- 
motion at  the  fair,  knelt  down,  her  brown  hands  uplifted  ;  a 
gaudy  ring  on  one  of  the  fingers,  worth  sixpence  perhaps  when 
new,  sparkling  in  the  torchlight.  Tod  strode  up  to  the  dead 
face  and  looked  at  it  for  full  ten  minutes.  I  do  believe  he 
thouirht  at  first  that  it  was  Lena. 

"  What  is  this  'i  "  he  asked. 

"  It  is  my  dead  child  I"  the  woman  answered.  "  She  did 
not  wait  that  her  father  might  see  her  die  ? " 

But  Tod  had  got  his  head  full  of  Lena,  and  looked  around 
"  Is  there  no  other  child  here  ? " 

As  if  to  answer  him,  a  bundle  of  rags  came  out  of  a  corner 
and  set  up  a  howl.  It  was  a  boy  about  seven,  and  our  going  in 
had  woke  him  up.  The  woman  sat  down  on  the  ground  and 
looked  at  us. 

"  We  have  lost  a  child — a  little  girl,"  explained  Tod.  "  I 
thought  she  might  have  been  broaght  here — or  have  strayed 
here." 

"  I've  lost  my  girl,"  said  the  woman,     "  Death  has  come  foi 


20  LOSING    LENA. 

her!"     And,  in  speaking  to  us,  she  spoke  a  more  intelh'gible 
language  than  when  alone. 

"  Yes ;  but  this  chiUl  has  been  lost — lost  out  of  doors ! 
Have  you  seen  or  lieard  anything  of  one?" 

"  I've  nor  been  in  the  way  o'  seeing  or  hearing,  master;  I've 
been  in  the  tent  alone.  If  folks  had  come  to  niy  aid,  Corry 
niiglit  not  have  died.  I've  had  nothing  but  water  to  put  in 
her  lips  all  day." 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  her  ? "  Tod  asked,  convinced  at 
Icnjrth  that  Lena  was  not  there. 

"  She  had  been  ailino-  long — worse  since  the  moon  come  in. 
The  sickness  took  her  with  the  summer,  and  the  strength  be- 
gan to  go  out.  Jake  have  been  down,  too.  He  couldn't  get 
out  to  bring  ns  help,  and  we  have  had  none." 

Jake  was  the  husband,  we  supposed.  The  help  meant  food, 
or  funds  to  e'et  it  with. 

"  He  sat  all  yesterday  cutting  skewers,  his  hands  a'niost  too 
weak  to  fashion  'em.  Maybe  he'd  sell  'em  for  a  few  ha'pence, 
he  said  ;  and  he  went  out  this  morning  to  try,  and  bring  home 
a  morsel  of  food." 

"  Tod,"  I  whispered,  "  I  wish  that  hard-hearted  Molly 
had " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Johnny,"  he  intei-rupted  sharply.  "  la 
Jake  your  husband  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  woman. 

"lie's  my  husband,  and  the  children's  father." 

"Jake  would  not  be  likely  to  steal  a  child,  would  he?" 
asked  Tod,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  for  him. 

She  looked  up,  as  if  not  understanding.  "  Steal  a  child, 
master !     What  for  ? " 

"  1  don't  know,"  said  Tod.  "  I  thought  j^ci-haps  he  had 
done  it,  and  had  brought  the  child  here." 

Another  comical  stare  from  the  woman.  "  We  couldn't 
feed  these  of  ours;  what  should  we  do  with  another?" 

"Well:  Jake  called  at  our  house  to  sell  his  skewers;  and^ 
directly  afterwards,  we  missed  my  little  sister.  I  have  been 
bunting  for  her  ever  since." 


LOSING   LENA.  21 

"  Was  the  house  far  from  here  ? " 

"A  few  miles." 

"  Then  he  have  sunk  down  of  weakness  on  his  waj,  and 
can't  get  back." 

Putting  her  head  on  her  knees,  she  began  to  sob  and  moan. 
The  child — the  livmg  one— began  to  bawl;  one  couldn't  call 
it  anything  else  ;  and  pulled  at  the  green  rushes. 

"He  knew  Corry  was  sick  and  faint  when  he  went  out. 
He'd  have  got  back  afore  now  if  his  strength  hadn't  failed 
him  ;  though,  maybe,  he  didn't  think  of  death.  "Whist,  then^ 
Dor,"  she  added,  to  the  boy. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Tod  to  the  little  chap,  who  had  got  the 
largest,  brightest  eyes  I  ever  saw  ;  "  that  will  do  no  good,  you 
know." 

"  I  want  Corry,"  said  he.     "  Where's  Corry  gone  ? " 

"  She's  gone  up  to  God,"  answered  Tod,  speaking  very  gently 
"  She's  Q-one  to  be  a  brio-lit  ano-el  with  Ilim  in  heaven." 

"Will  she  fly  down  to  me?"  asked  Dor,  his  great  eyes 
shinino:  throui>;h  their  tears  on  Tod. 

"  Yes,"  affirmed  Tod,  who  had  a  theory  of  his  own  on  the 
point,  and  used  to  think,  when  a  little  boy,  that  his  mother 
was  always  near  him,  one  of  God's  angels  keeping  him  from 
harm.  "  And  after  a  while,  you  know,  if  you  are  good,  you'll 
go  to  Corry,  and  be  an  angel,  too." 

"  God  bless  you,  master  !  "  interposed  the  woman.  "  He'll 
think  of  that  always." 

"  Tod,"  1  said,  as  we  went  out  of  the  tent,  "  I  don't  think 
they  are  people  to  steal  children." 

"  Who's  to  know  what  the  man  would  do?"  retorted  Tod. 

"  A  man  with  a  dying  child  at  home  wouldn't  be  likely  to 
harm  another." 

Tod  did  not  answer.  He  stood  still  a  moment,  deliberating 
which  way  to  go.  Back  to  Alcester? — where  a  conveyance 
might  be  found  to  take  us  home,  for  the  fatigue  was  telling 
on  both  of  UB,  now  that  disappointment  was  prolonged,  and  I, 
at  least,  could  hardly  put  one  foot  before  another.     Or  dowi? 


92  LOSING   LENA. 

to  the  high  road,  and  run  the  chance  of  some  vehicle  overtaking 
ns?  Or  keep  on  amidst  these  fields  and  hedgerows,  which 
would  lead  us  Jionie  by  a  rather  nearer  way,  but  without  chance 
of  a  lift  'i  Tod  made  up  his  mind,  and  struck  down  the  lane  tho 
way  we  had  come.  lie  was  on  first,  and  I  saw  him  come  to 
a  sudden  lialt,  and  turn  his  head  to  me. 

"  Look  here,  Johnny  !  " 

I  looked  as  well  as  I  could  foi'  the  night  and  the  trees,  and 
Baw  something  on  the  ground.  A  man  had  sunk  down  tJiere, 
eeemingly  from  exhaustion.  Ilis  face  was  a  tawny  white, 
just  like  the  dead  child's ;  a  stout  stick  and  the  bundles  of 
skewers  lay  beside  him. 

"  Do  you  see  the  fellow,  Johnny  ?     It  is  the  gipsy." 

"  Has  he  fainted  ? " 

"  Fainted,  or  shamming  it.  I  wonder  if  there's  any  watei 
about?" 

But  the  man  opened  his  eyes ;  perhaps  the  sound  of  voices 
revived  him.  After  looking  at  us  a  minute  or  two,  he  raised 
himself  slowly  on  his  elbow.  Tod — the  one  thought  upper- 
most in  his  mind — said  something  about  Lena. 

"  The  child's  found,  master?" 

T<xl  seemed  to  give  a  leap.    I  know  his  heart  did.    "  Found! " 

"  J3een  safe  at  home  this  long  while." 

"AVho  found  her?" 

"  'Twas  me,  master." 

"■  AVhere  was  she  ? "  asked  Tod,  his  tone  softeniug.  "  Let  na 
hear  about  it." 

"  I  was  making  back  for  the  town  "  (we  supposed  he  meant 
Alcester),  "and  missed  the  way  ;  land  about  here's  strange  ta 
nie.  Aii-fiiiiir  throu<;h  a  bit  of  a  o;r(.ve,  which  didn't  seem  as  if 
it  was  leading  to  nowhere,  I  heard  a  child  crvini;.  There  was 
the  btlle  thing  tied  to  a  tree,  stripped,  and " 

'■  Stripped  !"  roared  Tod. 

"  Stripped  to  the  skin,  sir,  save  for  a  dirty  old  skirt  that  waa 
tied  round  liei-.  A  woman  carried  her  off  to  that  spot,  she 
told  me,  robbed  her  of  her  clothes,  and  left  her  tliore.     Know- 


LOSING    LENA.  23 

Iiig  where  she  must  ha'  been  stole  from — through  you're  accus- 
ing me  of  it,  master — I  untied  her  to  lead  her  home,  but  her 
feet  warn't  used  to  the  rougli  ground,  and  I  made  shift  to  car- 
ry her.  A  matter  of  two  miles  it  were,  and  I  be  not  good  for 
much.  I  left  her  at  home  safe,  and  set  off  back.  That's  all^ 
master." 

"  What  were  you  doing  here  ? "  asked  Tod,  as  considerately 
as  if  he  had  been  speaking  to  a  lord.     " Resting?" 

"  I  suppose  I  fell,  master.  I  don't  remember  nothing,  since 
I  was  tramping  up  the  lane,  till  your  voices  came.  I've  had 
naught  inside  my  lips  to-day  but  a  drink  o'  water." 

"  Did  tliey  give  you  nothing  to  eat  at  the  house  when  you 
took  the  child  home  ? " 

Tie  shook  his  head.  "  I  saw  the  woman  again,  nobody  else. 
She  heard  what  I  had  to  say  about  the  child,  and  she  never 
said 'Thank  ye.'" 

The  man  had  been  getting  on  his  feet,  and  caught  up  the 
skewers,  that  were  all  tied  together  with  string,  and  the  stick. 
But  he  reeled  as  he  stood,  and  would  have  fallen  again  but 
for  Tod.     Tod  gave  him  his  arm. 

"We  are  in  for  it,  Johnny,"  said  he  aside  tome.  "Pity 
but  I  could  be  put  in  a  picture — the  Samaritan  helping  the 
destitute!" 

"  I'd  not  accept  of  ye,  sir,  but  that  I  have  a  child  sick  at 
home,  aud  want  to  get  to  her.  There's  a  piece  of  bread  in  my 
pocket  that  was  give  me  at  a  cottage  to-day." 

*'  Is  your  cliild  sure  to  get  well?"  asked  Tod,  after  a  pause ; 
wondering  whether  he  could  say  anything  of  w^hat  had  oc- 
curred, so  as  to  break  the  news. 

The  man  gazed  right  away  into  the  distance,  as  if  searching 
for  an  answer  in  the  far-off  star  shinin«:  there. 

"  Tliere's  been  a  death-look  in  lier  face  this  day  and  night 
past,  master.     But  the  Lord's  good  to  us  all." 

"And  sometimes,  when  He  takes  children,  it  is  done  in 
DQercy,"  said  Tod.     "  Heaven  is  a  better  place  than  this." 

"  Ay,"  rejoined  the  man,  who  was  leaning  heavily  on  Tod, 


2  i  LOSING    LKNA. 

and  could  never  have  got  home  without  him,  unless  he  had 
crawled  on  hands  and  knees.  "  I've  been  sickly  on  and  off  for 
this  year  past ;  worse  lately  ;  and  I've  tlionght  at  times  that  il 
my  own  turn  was  coming,  I'd  beglad  to  see  my  children  gone 
afuie  me.'* 

"Oh,  Tod  I"  I  whispered,  in  a  burst  of  repentan(;t;,  "how 
could  we  have  been  so  hard  with  this  poor  fellow,  and  rou^^hly 
accused  him  of  stealing  Lena?"  But  Tod  only  gave  me  a 
knock  Avitli  his  elbow. 

"I  fancy  it  must  be  pleasant  to  think  of  a  little  child  being 
an  angel  in  heaven  —  a  child  that  we  have  loved,"  said 
Tod. 

"  Av,  av,"  said  the  man. 

Tod  had  no  courage  to  say  more.  lie  was  not  a  parson. 
Pi'csently  he  asked  the  man  what  tribe  he  belonged  to — being 
a  gipsy. 

"  I'm  not  a  gipsy,  master.  Never  was  one  yet.  I  and  my 
wife  arc  dark-com[)lexioned  by  nature  ;  living  in  the  open  air 
has  made  us  darker;  But  I'm  English  born;  Christian, 
too.  JMy  wife's  Iiish  ;  but  they  do  say  she  comes  of  a  gipsy 
tribe.  We  used  to  have  a  cart,  and  went  aljout  the  country 
with  crockeiy ;  but  a  year  ago,  when  I  got  ill  and  lay  in  a 
lodfriniT,  the  things  were  seized  for  rent  and  debt.  Since 
then  it's  been  hard  lines  with  us.  Yonder's  my  bit  of  a 
tent,  master,  and  now  I  can  get  on  alone.  Thanking  ye 
kindly." 

''  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  harshly  to  you  to-day,"  said  Tod. 
"Take  this:  it  is  all  I  have  with  me." 

"I'll  take  it,  si  i",  for  mj- child's  sake ;  it  may  help  to  put 
the  strength  into  her.  Otheiwise  I'd  not.  We're  honest ; 
we've  never  begged.     Thank  ye  both,  masters,  once  again." 

It  was  only  a  shilling  or  two.  Tod  spent,  and  never  had 
much  in  his  pockets.  "I  wish  it  had  been  sovereigns,"  said 
he  to  me:  "  but  we  will  do  something  better  for  them  to  mor- 
••ow,  Johnny.     I  am  sui-e  the  Pater  will." 

"  Tod,"  said  I,  as  we  ran  on,  "  had  we  seen  the  man  close 


LOSING   LENA.  25 

before,  and  spoken  with  him,  I  sliould  never  have  suspected 
him.     He  has  a  face  to  be  trusted." 

Tod  burst  into  a  laugh,  "  There  you  are  Johnny,  at  your 
faces  again  !  " 

I  was  always  reading  people's  faces,  and  taking  likes  and 
dislikes  accordingly.  They  called  me  a  nniff  for  it  at  home 
(and  for  many  other  things),  Tod  especially;  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  could  read  people  as  easily  as  a  book.  Duffham, 
cur  surgeon  at  Church  Dykely,  bade  me  trust  to  it  as  a  good 
gift  from  God.  One  day,  pushing  my  straw  hat  up  to  draw 
his  fingers  across  the  top  of  my  brow,  he  quaintly  told  the 
Squire  that  when  he  wanted  people's  morals  read,  to  come  to 
me  to  read  them.     The  Squire  only  laughed  in  answer. 

As  luck  had  it,  a  gentleman  we  knew  was  passing  in  his  dog- 
cart when  we  got  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  It  was  old  Pitchley. 
He  drove  us  home  :  and  I  could  hardly  get  down,  I  \vas  so  stiff. 

Lena  was  in  bed,  safe  and  sound.  No  damage,  except  the 
fright  and  the  loss  of  her  clothes.  From  what  we  could  learn, 
the  woman  who  took  her  off  must  have  been  concealed  amidst 
the  ricks  when  Tod  [)ut  her  there.  Lena  said  the  woman  laid 
hold  of  her  vei-y  soon,  caught  her  up,  and  put  lier  hand  over 
her  mouth,  to  prevent  her  crying  out ;  she  could  onl}'  give  one 
scream.  I  ought  to  have  heard  it,  only  Macjk  was  making  such 
au  awful  row,  hannnering  that  iron.  How  far  along  iields  and 
byeways  the  woman  carried  her,  LewA  could  not  be  supposed 
to  tell :  "  Miles  !  "  she  said.  Then  the  thief  plunged  auiidst  a 
few  trees,  took  the  child's  things  off,  put  on  an  old  rag  of  a 
petticoat,  and  tied  her  loosely  to  a  tree.  Lena  thought  she 
could  have  got  loose  herself,  but  was  too  frigliteued  to  tiy  ;  and 
jwst  then  the  man,  Jake,  came  up. 

*'  I  liked  hini^ "  said  Lena.  "  He  carried  me  all  the  way  home, 
tnat  my  feet  should  not  huit ;  but  he  had  to  sit  down  so;netiuies. 
He  said  he  had  a  ])0or  little  girl  who  was  nearly  as  badly  off 
for  clothes  as  that,  l)Ut  she  did  not  want  them  now,  she  was  too 
sick.  He  said  he  hoped  my  papa  would  find  the  woman,  and 
put  her  in  prison." 


26  Losma  lena. 

It  is  what  the  Squire  intended  to  do,  good  chai.ce  hel]>ing 
him.  But  he  did  not  rcacli  home  till  after  us,  when  all  was 
quiet  again  :  which  was  f(n-tunate. 

"  I  suppose  you  blame  me  for  this  ?  "  cried  Tod,  to  his  step- 
mother. 

"  No,  I  don't,  Joseph,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetle3\  She  called  him 
Joseph  nearly  always,  not  liking  to  abbreviate  his  name,  as  some 
of  us  did.  "  It  is  so  very  common  a  thing  for  the  children  to 
be  playing  in  the  three-cornered  field  amidst  the  ricks  ;  and  no 
suspicion  that  danger  could  arise  from  it  having  ever  been 
glanced  at,  I  do  not  think  any  blame  attaches  to  you." 

"  J  am  very  sorry  now  for  having  done  it,"  said  Tod.  "  I 
shall  ne\  er  forget  the  fright  to  the  last  hour  of  mv  life." 

He  went  straight  to  Molly,  from  Mrs.  Todhetley,  a  look  on 
his  face  that,  when  seen  thej-e,  which  was  rare,  the  servants 
did  not  like.  Deference  was  rendered  to  Tod  in  the  house- 
hold. When  anything  should  take  off  the  good  old  Pater,  Tod 
would  be  master.  What  he  said  to  Molly  nobody  heard  ;  but 
the  woman  was  bano;ing  at  the  bi'ass  thimi^s  in  a  tantrum  for 
three  davs  afterwards. 

And  when  we  went  to  see  after  poor  Jake  and  his  people,  it 
was  too  late.  The  man,  the  tent,  the  living  people,  and  the 
dead  child — all  were  gone. 


II. 


FINDING  BOTH  OF  TliEM. 


ORCESTER  Assizes  were  being  held,  and  Sqnire 
^c^p^  Todhetley  was  on  the  grand  jury.  You  see,  although 
(^0^  Dyke  Manor  was  just  within  the  borders  of  AVarwick- 
shire,  the  greater  portion  of  the  S(j^uire's  property  lay 
in  Worcestershire.  This  caused  him  to  be  summoned  to  serve. 
We  were  often  at  his  house  there,  Crabb  Cot.  I  forget  who 
was  forenian  of  the  jury  that  time  :  either  Sir  John  Pakington. 
or  the  Honourable  Mr.  Coventry. 

The  week  was  j(»ny.  We  put  up  at  the  "  Star  and  Garter  " 
when  we  went  to  "Worcester,  which  was  two  or  thi-ee  times 
a-year  ;  generally  at  the  assizes,  or  the  races,  or  the  quarter 
sessions  ;  one  or  other  of  the  busy  times. 

The  Pater  would  grumble  at  the  bilk— and  say  we  hoys  had 
no  business  to  be  there ;  but  he  would  take  us,  if  Ave  were  at 
home,  for  all  that.  The  assizes  came  on  this  time  tlie  week 
before  our  sunnner  holidays  were  up ;  the  Squire  wished  they 
had  not  come  on  until  the  week  after.  Anyway,  there  we 
were  in  clover ;  the  Squire  al)out  to  be  stewed  up  in  the  county 
courts  all  <lay;  I  and  Tod  flying  about  the  town,  and  doing 
what  we  liked. 

The  judges  came  in  from  Oxford  on  the  usual  day,  Saturday. 
And,  to  make  plain  what  I  am  going  to  tell  aljout,  we  must 
go  back  to  that  morning  and  to  Dyke  Manor.  It  was  hi-oiling 
hot  weather,  and  Mi's.  Todhetley,  Hugh,  and  Lena,  with  old 
Thomas  and  Hannah,  all  came  on  the  lawn  after  breakfast  to  see 
us  start.    The  open  carriage  was  at  the  door,  with  the  fine  c.ark 


28  FINDING    BOTH    OF   THEM. 

horses.  "WTien  the  Squire  did  come  out,  he  liked  to  do  Ihiiiga 
well ;  and  Dwarf  Giles,  tiie  groom,  had  <;'()ue  on  to  Worcester 
the  preceding  day  with  the  two  saddle-horses,  the  Pater's  and 
Tod's.  They  might  have  ridden  them  in  this  morning,  but  the 
Squire  cliose  to  have  his  horses  sleek  and  fresh  when  atten<U 
ing  the  high  sheriff. 

"  Shall  I  drive,  sir  ?  "  asked  Tod. 

"  No,"  said  the  Pater.  "  These  two  have  queer  tempers,  and 
m\'..it  be  handled  carefully."  lie  meant  the  horses,  J^ob  and 
Blister.  Tod  looked  at  me  ;  he  thcnight  he  could  have  managed 
theai  quite  as  well  as  the  Pater. 

"  Papa,"  cried  Lena,  as  we  were  driving  off,  running  up  in 
her  white  pinafore,  with  her  pretty  hair  flying,  "  if  you  can 
catch  that  naughty  kidna|)per  at  Worcester,  you  i)ut  her  in 
prison." 

The  Squire  nodded  emphatically,  as  much  as  to  say, "  Trust 
me  for  that."  Lena  alluded  to  the  woman  who  had  taken  her 
off  and  stolen  her  clothes  two  or  three  weeks  before.  Tod  said, 
afterwai-ds,  there  must  have  been  some  prevision  on  the  child's 
mind  when  she  said  this. 

We  reached  Worcester  at  twelve.  It  is  a  long  drive,you  know. 
Lots  of  country-people  had  arrived,  and  the  Squire  went  off 
with  some  of  them.  Tod  and  I  thought  we'd  order  luncheon 
at  the  Star — a  jolly  good  one  ;  stewed  lampreys,  kidneys,  and 
cherry  tart ;  and  let  it  go  into  the  Squire's  bill. 

Pm  afraid  I  envied  Tod.  The  old  days  of  travelling  post 
were  past,  when  the  sheriff's  procession  would  go  out  to  Whit- 
tington  to  meet  the  judges'  carriage.  They  came  now  by  rail 
from  Oxford,  and  the  sheriff  and  his  attendants  received  them 
at  the  railway  station.  It  was  the  lirst  time  Tod  had  been 
allowed  to  make  one  of  the  gentlemen-attendants.  The  Squire 
Baid  now  he  was  too  young;  but  he  looked  big,  and  tall,  and 
Btronir.  To  see  him  mount  his  horse  and  uro  canterinir  off  with 
the  rest  sent  me  into  a  state  of  envy.     Tod  saw  it. 

"  Don't  drop  your  mouth,  Johnny,"  said  he.  '*  You'll  make 
cue  of  us  in  another  vear  or  two." 


FINDING    BOTH    OF   TIIEM.  29 

T  stcod  about  for  half  an  hour,  and  the  precession  came  back, 
passing  the  Star  on  its  way  to  the  county  courts.  Tlie  bells 
were  rinoing,  the  advanced  heralds  blew  tlieir  trumpets,  and 
the  javelin  guard  rode  at  a  foot  pace,  their  lances  in  rest,  pre- 
ceding the  high  sheriff's  grand  carriage,  with  its  four  prancing 
horses  and  their  silvered  harness.  Both  the  judges  had  come 
in,  so  we  knew  that  business  was  over  at  Oxford;  they  sat 
opposite  to  the  sheriff  and  his  chaplain.  1  used  to  wonder 
whether  the}'  travelled  all  the  way  in  their  wigs  and  gowns, 
or  robed  outside  Worcester.  Squire  Todhetley  rode  in  tho 
line  next  the  carriage,  with  some  more  old  ones  of  consequence ; 
Tod  on  his  fine  bay  was  nearly  at  the  tail,  and  he  gave  me  a 
nod  in  passing.  The  judges  were  going  to  open  the  commission, 
and  Foregate  Street  was  crowded. 

The  high  sheriff  that  year  was  a  friend  of  ours,  and  the 
Pater  had  an  invitation  to  the  banquet  he  gave  that  evening. 
Tod  thouo-ht  he  ouffht  to  have  been  invited  too. 

"  It's  sinfully  stingy  of  him,  Johnny.  AVhen  I  am  pricked 
for  sheriff — and  I  suppose  my  turn  will  come  some  time,  either 
for  Vfarwickshire  or  "Worcestershire — I'll  have  .nore  young 
fellows  to  my  dinner  than  old  ones." 

The  Squire,  knowing  nothing  of  our  mid-day  lu  icheon,  was 
surprised  that  we  chose  supper  at  eight  instead  (  f  dinner  at 
six;  but  he  told  the  waiter  to  give  us  a  good  one  "We  went 
out  while  it  was  getting  ready,  and  walked  .n,rm-in-arm 
through  the  crowded  streets.  Worcester  is  alwa/y  full  on  a 
Saturday  evening;  it  is  market-day  there,  as  everybody 
knows;  but  on  Assize  Saturday  the  streets  are  neajly  impass- 
able. Tod,  tall  and  strong,  held  on  his  way,  and  ajtod  lea\o 
of  none. 

"  Now,  then,  you  twr  gents,  can't  you  go  on  pro  oor,  and 
not  elbow  respectable  folks  like  that  ? " 

"  Halloa !  "  cried  Tod,  turning  at  the  voice.  "  Is  it  yc>a, 
old  Jones  ? " 

Old  Jones,  the  constable  of  our  parish,  touclied  his  hat 
when  he  saw  it  was  us,  and  begged  pardon.     We  asked  what 


30  FINDING    BOTH    OF    THEM. 

he  was  doing  ai  Worcester ;  but  he  had  only  come  on  his 
own  acconnt.     '*  On  the  spree,"  Tod  sn^xgested  to  him. 

''  Young  Mr.  Todhotlej,"  cried  he — the  way  lie  mostly  ad- 
dressed Tod — "  I'd  not  be  sure  but  that  woman's  took — hei 
that  served  out  little  Miss  Lena." 

"  That  woman  !  "  said  Tod.     "  V/hv  do  vou  think  it  ? 

Old  Jones  explained.  A  woman  had  been  ap[)rehended 
near  Worcester  the  previous  day,  on  a  charge  of  stripping 
tw3  little  boys  of  their  clothes  in  Perry  Wood.  The  descrip- 
tion gi\en  of  her  answered  exactly,  old  Jones  thought,  to 
that  ij;iven  bv  Lena. 

"  She  stripped  'em  to  the  skin,"  groaned  Jones,  drawing  a 
long  face  as  he  recited  the  mishap :  '*  two  poor  little  chaps 
of  three  years,  they  was,  living  in  them  cottages  under  the 
Wood — not  as  much  as  theii-  boots  did  i-he  leave  on  'em. 
When  they  got  home  their  folks  didn't  know  'em;  quite 
naked  they  was,  and  bleating  with  terror,  like  a  brace  of 
Bhorn  sheep." 

Tod  put  on  his  determined  look.  "  And  she  is  taken,  you 
Bay,  Jones?" 

''  She  was  took  yesterday,  sir.  They  had  her  before  the 
justices  this  morning,  and  the  little  fellows  knowed  her  at 
once.  As  the  'sizes  was  on,  leastways  as  good  as  on,  their 
worships  committed  her  for  trial  tlieie  and  then.  Policeman 
Cripp  told  me  all  about  it ;  it  was  him  that  took  her.  She's 
in  the  c(juntv  e-aol." 

We  cari-ied  the  tale  to  the  Pater  that  night,  and  he 
despatched  a  messenger  to  Mrs.  Todhetley,  to  say  that  Lena 
must  be  at  Worcester  on  the  Monday  morning.  But  there's 
Botuething  to  tell  about  the  Sunday  yet. 

If  you  have  been  in  Woi-cester  on  Assize  Sunday,  you 
know  how  the  cathedral  is  on  thai  niornino;  crowded.  Enouo-h 
Btrangers  are  in  the  town  to  rill  it :  the  inhal)itants  who  go  to 
the  churches  at  other  times  attend  it  then  ;  and  King  Mob 
flocks  in  to  see  the  show. 

Squire  Todhetley  was  put  in  the  stalls;  Tod  and  1  scram- 


FrNTDTNG    BOTH    OF   THEM.  31 

bled  fo/  p. aces  on  a  beneli.  The  alterations  in  the  cathe 
dral  (going  on  for  years  before  tJiat,  and  going  on  fdr  jeara 
since,  and  going  on  still)  caused  space  to  be  limited,  and  it 
was  no  end  of  a  cram.  While  people  fought  for  standing- 
places,  the  procession  was  played  in  to  the  crash  of  the  organ 
The  j  udges  came,  glorious  in  their  wigs  and  gowns ;  the 
mayor  and  aldermen  were  grand  as  scarlet  and  gold  chains 
could  make  them :  and  there  was  a  laro;e  attendance  of  the 
clergy  in  their  white  robes.  The  Bishop  had  come  in  from 
IIartlel)urv,  and  was  on  his  throne,  and  the  service  beo-an. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Wheeler  chanted ;  the  Dean  read  the  lessons. 
Of  course  the  music  was  all  right ;  they  put  up  fine  services 
on  Assize  Sundays  now:  and  the  sherilf's  chaplain  went  up 
in  his  black  gown  to  preach  the  serinon.  Three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  if  you'll  believe  me,  before  that  sermon  came  to  an  end ! 

Ere  the  organ  had  well  played  its  Amen  to  the  Bishop's 
blessing,  the  crowd  began  to  push  out.  We  pushed  with  the 
rest,  and  took  up  our  places  in  the  long  cathedral  body  to  see 
the  procession  pass  back  again.  It  came  winding  down 
between  the  line  of  javelin-men.  Just  as  the  judges  were 
passing.  Tod  touched  me  to  look  ojjposite.  There  stood  a 
young  boy  in  dreadful  clothes,  patched  all  over,  but  otherwise 
clean  :  with  great  dark  wondering  eyes  riveted  on  the  judges, 
as  if  they  had  been  peacocks  on  stilts ;  on  their  wigs,  on  their 
solenm  countenances,  on  their  held-up  scarlet  trains. 

Where  had  I  seen  those  eyes,  and  their  brilliant  brio-htness? 
Recollection  flashed  over  me  before  Tod's  whisper ;  "  Jake's 
boy  ;  the  youngster  we  saw  in  the  tent." 

To  get  across  the  ]i.ne  was  impossible  :  good  manners  would 
not  permit  it,  let  alone  the  javelin-guard.  And  when  the  pro- 
cession had  passed,  leaving  nothing  but  a  crowd  of  shuiSing 
feet  and  the  dust  on  the  white  cathedral  floor,  the  boy  was 
gone. 

"  I  say,  Johnny,  it  is  rather  odd  we  should  come  on  those 
tent-people,  just  as  the  woman  has  turned  up,"  exclaimed 
Tod,  as  we  ^-o  clear  of  the  cathedral. 


32  FINDING    BOTH    OF    THEM. 

"  But  you  don't  think  tliey  can  be  connected,  Tod  !  " 

"Vfell,  no;  I  suppose  not.  It's  a  queer  coincidence, 
though." 

This  we  also  carried  to  the  Scpiire,  as  we  had  the  othei 
news,     lie  was  standing  in  the  Star  gateway. 

"Look  here,  you  boys,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of  thonght; 
"keep  your  eyes  open  ;  you  may  come  upon  the  lad  again,  or 
some  of  his  folks.  I  shonkl  like  to  do  something  for  that 
poor  man  ;  I've  wished  it  ever  since  he  brought  home  Lena,  and 
that  c(;n founded  Molly  drove  him  out  by  way  of  recompense." 

"And  if  they  should  be  confederates,  sir?"  suggested  Tod. 

"  Who  confederates  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Joe? " 

"  These  people  and  the  female-stripper.  It  seems  strange 
they  should  both  turn  u])  again  in  the  same  spot." 

The  noti(m  took  away  the  Pater's  bi-cath.  "  If  I  thought 
that ;  if  1  tiiid  it  is  so,"  he  broke  forth,  ''  Lil — I'll — transport 
the  lot." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  arrived  with  Lena  on  Sunday  afternoon. 
Early  on  Monday,  the  Squire  and  Tod  took  her  to  the  gov- 
erner's  house  at  the  county  prison,  where  she  was  to  sec  the 
woman,  as  if  accidentally,  nothing  behig  said  to  Lena. 

The  woman  was  brought  in  :  a  bold  jade  with  a  red  face  ; 
and  Lena  nearly  went  into  convulsions  at  the  sight  of  her. 
There  could  be  no  mistake :  the  woman  was  the  same  :  and  the 
Pater  became  red-hot  with  anger  ;  especially  to  think  he  could 
not  punish  her  in  Worcester. 

As  the  fly  went  racing  up  Salt  Lane  after  tlie  interview,  on 
its  way  to  leave  the  Squire  at  the  county  courts,  a  lad  ran  past. 
It  was  Jake's  boy  ;  the  same  we  had  seen  in  the  cathedral. 
Tod  leaped  up  and  called  to  the  driver  to  stop,  liut  the  Pater 
roared  out  an  order  to  go  on.  His  appearance  at  the  court 
could  not  be  delayed,  and  Tod  had  to  stay  with  Lena.  So  the 
clue  was  lost  ao-ain.  Tod  brought  Lena  to  the  Star,  and  then 
he  and  I  went  to  the  criminal  court,  and  bribed  a  fellow  for 
places.  Tod  said  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to  hear  the  kidnapper 
tjicd. 


FINDING    BOTH    OF   THEM.  35 

It  was  nearly  the  first  case  called  on.     Some  of  the  lighter 
cases  were  taken  first,  while  the  grand  jury  deliberated  on  then- 
bills  for  the  graver  ones.     Her  name,  as  given  in,  was  Nancy 
Cole,  and  she  tried  to  excite  the  sympathies  of  the  judge  and 
jriry  by  reciting  a  whining  account  of  a  deserting  husband  and 
o*-her  ills.     The  evidence  was  quite  clear.      The  two  children 
(little  shavers  in  petticoats)  set  up  a  roar  in  court  at  sight  of 
the  woman,  just  as  Lena  had  in  the  governor's  house;  and  a 
dealer  in  marine  stores  produced  their  clothes,  which  he  had 
bouo-ht  of  her.     Tod  whispered  to  me  that  he  should  go  about 
"Worcester  after  this  in  daily  dread  of  seeing  Lena's  blue-silk 
frock  and  open-worked  stockings  hanging  in  a  shop  window. 
Some  allusion  was  spoken  during  the  trial  to  the  raid  the  pris- 
oner had  also  recently  made  on  the  little  daughter  of  Mr.  Tod- 
hetley,  of  Dyke  Manor,  Warwickshire,  and  of  Crabb  Cot,  Wor 
cestershire,  "one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  grand  jury  at  present 
sitting  in  deliberation  in  an  adjoining  chamber  of  the  court.'' 
But,  as  the  judge  said,  that  could  not  be  received  in  evidence. 
Mrs.  Cc»le  brazened  it  out :  the  testimony  was  too  strong  to 
attempt  denial.     "  And  if  she  had  took  a  few  bits  o'  things, 
cause  she  was  famishing,  she  didn't  hurt  the  children.     She'd 
never  hurt  a  child  in  her  life  ;  couldn't  do  it.    Just  conterairy 
to  that ;  she  gave  'em  sugar  plums — and  candy — and  a  piece 
of  a  wiir,"^  she  did.      What  was  she  to  do?      Starve?     Since 
her  wicked  husband,  that  she  hadn't  seen  for  this  five  year, 
deserted  of  her,  and  her  two  boys,  fine  grown  lads  both  of  'em. 
had  been  accused  of  theft  and  got  put  away  from  her,  one  into 
prison,  t'other  into  a  'formitory,  she  hadn't  got  no  soul  to  care 
for  her  nor  help  her  to  a  bit  o'  bread.      Life  was  hard,  and 
times  was  bad  ;  and — there  it  was.     Ko  good  o'  saying  more." 
"Guilty,"  said  the  foreman  of  the  jury,  without  turning 
round.     "  We  find  the  prisoner  guilty,  my  lord." 

The  judge  sentenced  her  to  six  months'  imprisonment  with 
hard  labour.     Mrs.  Cole  brazened  it  still. 


*  A  sort  of  plain  bun  sold  in  Worcester. 
2* 


34r  FINDING    BOTH    OF    THEM. 

"  Thank  yon,"  said  she  to  his  lordship,  dropping  a  cnrtsey 
as  they  were  taking  her  from  the  dock  ;  "  and  I  hope  you'll  sit 
there,  old  gentleman,  till  I  come  out." 

AVhen  the  Squire  was  told  ol:  the  sentence  that  evening,  he 
said  it  was  too  mild  bj  half,  and  talked  of  bringing  her  also 
to  book  at  Warwick.  But  Mrs.  Todhetley  said,  "Xo ;  forgive 
hor."     After  all,  it  was  but  the  loss  of  the  clothes. 

Nothiuir  whatever  had  come  out  durino-  the  trial  to  connect 
Jake  with  the  woman.  She  appeared  to  be  a  stray  waif  with- 
out friends.  "  And  I  watched  and  listened  closely  for  it,  miud 
yoUj  Johnny,"  remarked  Tod. 


It  was  a  day  or  two  after  this — I  think,  on  the  "Wednesday 
evening.  The  Squii-e's  grand  jury  duties  were  over,  but  he 
stayed  on,  Intending  to  make  a  week  of  it;  Mrs.  Todhetley  and 
Lena  had  left  for  home.  We  had  dined  late,  and  Tod  and  I 
went  for  a  stroll  afterwards  ;  leaving  the  Pater,  and  an  old 
clergyman,  who  had  dined  with  us,  to  theii'  wine.  In  passing 
the  cooked-meat  shop  in  High-street,  we  saw  a  little  chap  look- 
ing in,  his  face  flattened  against  the  panes.  Tod  laid  hold  of 
his  shoulder,  and  the  boy  turned  his  brilliant  eyes  and  their 
hungry  expression  upon  us. 

"  Do  you  remember  me.  Dor?"  You  see,  Tod  had  not  for- 
gotten his  name. 

Dorevidentlv  did  remember.  And  whether  it  was  that  he 
felt  frightened  at  being  accosted,  or  whether  the  sight  of  us 
brought  back  to  him  the  image  of  the  dead  child  sister  lying 
on  the  rushes,  was  best  known  to  himself;  but  he  burst  out 
crying. 

"  There's  nothing  to  cry  for,"  said  Tod  ;  "you  need  not  be 
afraid.     Could  you  eat  some  of  that  meat?" 

Something  like  a  shiver  of  glad  surprise  brf  ke  over  the 
boy's  face  at  tlie  question  ;  just  as  though  he  had  had  no  food 
for  weeks.  Tod  gave  him  a  shilling,  and  told  liim  to  go  in 
and  buy  some.     But  the  boy  looked  at  the  money  doibtiugly 


FLNDIXG    BOTTT    OF   THEM.  35 

^'  A  whole  sliillino; !    Thev'd  think  I  stole  it." 

Tod  took  back  the  monev,  and  went  in  himself.  He  wag 
as  proud  a  fellow  as  you'd  find  in  the  two  counties,  and  yet 
he  would  do  all  sorts  of  things  that  many  another  glanced  ask- 
ance at. 

"  I  want  half  a  pound  of  beef,"  said  he  to  the  man  who  was 
carving,  "  and  some  bread,  if  you  sell  it.  And  I'll  take  one 
of  those  small  pork  pies." 

"  Shall  I  put  the  meat  in  paper,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  man  :  aa 
if  doubting  whether  Tod  might  prefer  to  eat  it  there. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tod.  And  the  customers,  working  men  and  a 
woman  in  a  drab  shawl,  turned  and  stared  at  him. 

Tod  paid ;  took  it  all  in  his  hands,  and  we  left  the  shop. 
He  did  not  mind  to  be  seen  carrying  the  parcels ;  but  he 
would  have  minded  letting  them  know  that  he  was  feeding  a 
poor  boy. 

"  Here,  Dor,  you  can  take  the  things  now,"  said  he,  when 
we  had  gone  a  few  yards.     "  Where  do  you  live  ? " 

Dor  explained  in  a  fashion.  We  knew  Worcester  well,  but 
failed  to  understand.  "Not  far  from  the  big  church,"  he 
Baid  ;  and  at  first  we  thought  he  meant  the  cathedral. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Tod  ;  "  go  on,  and  show  us." 

He  went  skimming  along,  Tod  keeping  him  within  arm's 
length,  lest  he  should  try  to  escape.  Why  Tod  should  have 
suspected  he  might,  I  don't  know ;  nothing,  as  it  turned  out, 
could  have  been  farther  from  Dor's  thoughts.  The  church  he 
spoke  of  proved  to  be  All  Saints' ;  the  boy  turned  up  an  entry 
near  to  it,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a  reo-ular  rookery  of 
dirty,  miserable,  tumble-down  houses.  Loose  men  stood 
about,  pipes  in  their  mouths ;  women,  in  tatters,  had  their 
hair  hanging  down. 

Dor  dived  into  a  dark  den  that  seemed  to  be  reached 
through  a  hole  you  had  to  stoop  under.  My  patience !  what 
a  close  place  it  was,  with  a  smell  that  nearly  knocked  you 
backwards.  There  was  not  an  earthly  thing  in  the  room  that 
we  could  see,  except  some  straw  in  a  corner,  and  on  that  Jake 


J/ 


36  FINDIxVa   BOTH    OF   THEM. 

was  lyiiiG;.     The  boy  appeared  with  a  piece  of  lighted  caudle, 
which  ho  had  been  upstairs  to  borrow. 

Jake  was  tliin  enough  before  ;  he  was  a  skeleton  now.  ITia 
eyes  wore  sunk,  the  bones  of  his  thin  face  stood  out,  the  skin 
glistening  on  his  shapely  nose,  his  voice  was  weak  and  hollow. 
He  knew  us,  and  smiled. 

"  What's  the  matter  'i  "  asked  Tod,  speaking  gently.  "  You 
look  very  ill." 

"  I  be  very  ill,  master ;  I've  been  getting  worse  ever  since 

His  history  was  this.  The  same  Tiight  that  we  had  seen  the 
tent  at  Cookhill,  some  travelling  people  of  Jake's  fraternity 
happened  to  encamp  close  to  it  for  the  night.  By  their  help, 
the  dead  child  was  removed  as  fai*  as  Evesham,  and  thei-e 
bm  led.  Jake,  his  wife,  and  son,  went  on  to  Worcester,  and  there 
the  man  was  taken  worse ;  they  had  been  in  this  room  since  ; 
the  wife  had  found  a  place  of  washing  to  go  to  twice  a  week, 
earning  her  food  and  a  shilling  each  time.  It  was  all  they 
had  to  depend  upon,  these  two  shillings  weekly ;  and  the  few 
bits  o'  things  they  had,  to  use  Jake's  words,  had  been  taken 
by  the  landlord  for  rent.  But  to  see  Jake's  resignation  was 
something  curious. 

"He  was  very  good,"  he  said,  alluding  to  the  landlord  and 
the  seizure;  "he  left  me  the  straw.  When  he  saw  how  bad 
I  was,  he  wouldn't  take  it.  We  had  been  obliged  to  sell  the 
tent,  and  there  was  a'most  nothing  for  him." 

"Have  you  had  no  medicine?  have  you  had  no  advice?  " 
cried  Tod,  speaking  as  if  he  had  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

Yes,  he  had  had  medicine  ;  the  wife  went  for  it  to  the  free 
place  (he  meant  the  dispensary)  twice  a  week,  and  a  young 
doctor  had  been  to  see  him. 

Dor  opened  the  paper  of  meat,  and  showed  it  to  his  father. 
"The  gentleman  bought  it  me,"  he  said;  "and  this,  and  this. 
Couldn't  you  eat  some  ? " 

I  saw  the  eager  look  that  arose  for  a  moment  to  Jake's  face 
at  sight  of  the  meat :  three  slices  of  nice  cold  boiled  beef, 
better  than  what  we  got  at  school.     Dor  held  out  one  in  his 


FINDING   BOTH    OF   THEM.  37 

fingers ;  the  man  broke  off  a  morsel,  put  it  into  Ids  mouth, 
and  had  a  chokino-  fit. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Dor." 

"  Is  his  name  '  Dor '  ?  "  asked  Tod. 

"  llis  name  is  James,  sir ;  same  as  mine,"  answered  Jake, 
nan  tin  o;  a  little  from  the  exertion  of  swallowino-  the  meat. 
'The  wife,  she  has  called  him  'Dor'  for  '  dear,'  and  I've  feh 
into  it.     She  has  called  me  Jake  all  along." 

Tod  felt  something  ought  to  be  done  to  help  him,  but  he 
had  no  more  idea  what  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  I  had 
less.  As  Dor  piloted  us  to  the  open  street,  we  asked  hira 
where  his  mother  was.  It  was  one  of  her  working  days  out, 
he  answered  ;  she  was  always  kept  late. 

"Could  he  drink  wine,  do  you  think.  Dor?" 

"  The  gentleman  said  he  was  to  have  it,"  answered  Dor, 
alludinir  to  the  doctor. 

"  ILnv  old  are  you.  Dor  ? " 

"  I'm  a  nigh  ten."     He  did  not  look  it. 

"  Johnny,  I  wonder  if  there's  any  place  where  they  sell  beef- 
tea  ? "  cried  Tod,  as  we  went  up  Broad  Street.  "  My  goodness ! 
lying  there  in  that  state,  with  no  help  !  " 

"  I  never  saw  anything  so  bad  before,  Tod," 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  kept  thinking  of  all  the  time  ?  I 
could  not  get  it  out  of  my  head." 

"  What  ? " 

"  Of  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate.  Johnny,  lad,  there 
seems  an  awful  responsibility  lying  on  some  of  us." 

To  hear  Tod  say  such  a  thing  was  stranger  than  all.  He 
set  off  running,  and  burst  into  our  sitting-room  in  the  Star, 
startlino;  the  Pater,  who  was  alone  and  readinsr  one  of  the  Wor- 
cester  papers  with  his  spectacles  on.  Tod  sat  down  and  told 
him  all. 

"  Dear  me !  dear  me ! "  cried  the  Pater,  growing  red  as  he 
listened.     "  Why,  Joe,  the  poor  fellow  must  be  dying!  " 

"He  may  not  have  gone  too  far  for  recovery,  father,"  was 
Tod's  answer.     "  If  we  had  to  lie  in  that  close  hole,  and  had 


38  rixDiNG  BOTH  or  them. 

nothing  to  eat  or  drink,  we  should  probaMy  soon  become  skele- 
tons also.  He  may  get  well  yet  with  proper  care  and  treat- 
ment." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  first  tliiiio:  to  do  is  to  sret  him  into 
the  Infirmary,"  remarked  the  Pater, 

"And  it  oiiMit  to  be  done  earlv  to-mon-ow  moi-niuir,  sir;  if 
it's  too  late  to-night." 

The  Pater  got  np  in  a  bustle,  ])ut  on  his  hat,  and  went  out. 
Pie  was  going  to  his  old  friend,  the  great  surgeon,  Ilem-y  Car- 
den.  Tod  ran  after  him  up  Foregate  Street,  but  was  sent  back 
to  me.  We  stood  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments saw  them  coming  along,  the  Pater  anu-in-ai-m  with  Mr. 
Garden.  He  had  come  out  as  readily  to  visit  the  poor  helpless 
man  as  ho  would  to  visit  a  rich  one.  Perhaps  more  so.  They 
stopped  when  they  saw  us,  and  Mr.  Garden  asked  Tod  some 
of  the  particulars. 

"  You  can  get  him  admitted  to  the  Infirmary  at  once,  can 
you  not?"  said  the  Pater,  impatiently,  who  was  all  on  thorns 
to  have  something  done. 

"  By  what  I  can  gather,  it  is  not  a  case  for  the  Infirmary," 
was  the  answer  of  its  chief  surgeon.     "  We'll  see." 

Down  we  went,  walking  fast :  the  Pater  and  Mr.  Garden  in 
front,  I  and  Tod  at  their  heels ;  and  found  the  room  again  with 
Rome  difticulty,  Tlic  wife  was  in  then,  and  had  made  a  hand- 
ful of  fire  in  tlie  grate.  What  with  the  smoke,  and  what  with 
the  other  agreeable  accoihpaniments,  we  were  nearly  stifled. 

If  ever  I  wished  to  be  a  doctor,  it  was  when  I  saw  Mr.  Gar- 
den with  that  poor  sick  man.  He  was  so  gentle  with  him,  so 
cheerj-  and  kind.  Had  Jake  been  a  duke,  I  don't  see  that  he 
could  have  been  treated  differently.  There  was  something 
Buperior  about  the  man,  too,  as  though  he  had  seen  better 
days. 

"  What  is  yonr  name  ? "  asked  Mr.  Garden. 

"  James  Winter,  sir,  a  native  of  Hei-efordshire.  I  was  on 
my  way  there  when  I  was  taken  ill  in  this  place." 

*'  What  to  do  there  ?     To  get  work  \ " 


nNDtNG    BOIII    OF   THEM.  3S 

"  Xo,  si  1  ;  to  die  It  don't  much  matter,  though ;  God's  here 
as  well  as  there." 

'*  You  are  not  a  gipsy  ? " 

"Oh  dear  no.  sir.  From  mv  dark  skin,  thouo^h,  I've  been 
taken  fi>r  one.     My  wife's  descended  from  a  gipsy  tribe." 

"  We  are  thinking  of  placing  you  in  the  Infirmary,  Jake," 
cried  the  later.  '-You  will  have  every  comfort  there,  and 
the  best  of  attendance.     This  gentleman " 

""We'll  see — we'll  see,"  interp(jsed  Mr.  Garden,  breaking  in 
hastily  on  the  promises.  "I  am  not  sure  tliat  the  Infirmary 
will  do  for  him." 

"  It  is  too  late,  sir,  I  think,"  said  Jake,  quietly,  to  Mr.  Garden. 

Mr.  Garden  made  no  reply.  lie  asked  the  woman  if  she 
had  such  a  thing  as  a  tea-cup  or  wine-glass.  She  produced  a 
cracked  cup  with  the  handle  off  and  a  notch  in  the  rim.  Mr. 
Garden  poured  something  into  it  that  he  had  brought  in  his 
pocket,  and  stooped  over  the  man.  Jake  began  to  speak  in 
his  faint  voice. 

"  Sir,  I'd  not  seem  ungrateful,  but  I'd  like  to  stay  here  with 
the  wife  and  bov  to  the  last.     It  can't  be  for  lono'  no\v." 

"  Drink  this  ;  it  will  do  you  good,"  said  Mr.  Garden,  hold- 
ing the  cup  to  his  lips. 

"  This  close  place  is  a  change  from  the  tent,"  I  said  to  the 
woman,  who  was  stooping  over  the  bit  of  fire. 

Such  a  look  of  regret  came  upon  her  countenance  as  she 
lifted  it :  just  as  if  the  tent  had  been  a  palace  of  gold.  "  When 
we  got  here,  master,  it  was  after  that  two  days'  rain,  and  the 
ground  was  sopping.  It  didn't  do  for  him  " — glancing  round 
at  the  straw.  "  He  was  getting  mighty  bad  tlien,  and  we  just 
put  our  heads  into  this  place — bad  luck  to  us  ! " 

The  Squire  gave  her  some  silver,  and  told  her  to  get  any- 
thing in  she  thought  best.  It  was  too  late  to  do  more  that 
night.     The  church  clocks  were  striking  ten  as  we  went  out. 

"Won't  it  do  to  move  him  to  tlie  Infirmary ?"  were  the 
}*ater's  first  words  to  Mr.  Garden. 

'  Certainly  not.     The  man's  hours  are  numbered." 


40  FINDING    BOTH    OF    TJIEM. 

"  There  is  no  liope,  I  sn])pose?" 

"  Not  the  least.     lie  iiia^'  be  said  to  he  dying  now." 

No  time  was  lost  in  the  moiMiiiio-.  AVhen  Scjnire  Todhotlc} 
took  a  will  to  heart  he  carried  it  out,  and  speedily,  A  decent 
roc>m  with  an  airy  window  was  found  in  the  same  l>li)ck  <A 
buildings.  A  bed  and  other  things  were  put  in  it ;  some  clolhog 
were  redeemed ;  and  by  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day  Jake  waa 
comfortably  lying  there.  The  Pater  seemed  to  think  that  thia 
was  not  enough :  he  wanted  to  do  more. 

"His  humanity  to  my  child  kept  him  from  seeing  the  last 
moments  of  his,"  said  he.  "  The  little  help  we  can  give  hira 
now  is  no  return  for  that." 

Food  and  clothes,  and  a  diy,  comfortable  room,  and  wine  and 
proper  things  for  Jake — of  which  he  could  not  swallow  much. 
The  woman  was  not  to  go  out  to  work  again  while  he  lasted, 
but  to  stay  at  home  and  attend  to  him. 

"  I  shall  be  at  liberty  by  the  hop-picking  time,"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.     "  Ah,  poor  creature !  long  before  that." 

TT'hen  Tod  and  I  went  in  later  in  the  afternoon,  she  had 
jnst  given  Jake  some  physic,  ordered  by  Mr.  Garden.  She 
and  the  boy  sat  by  the  fire,  tea  and  bread-and-butter  on  the 
deal  table  between  them.  Jake  lay  in  bed,  his  head  raised  on 
account  of  his  breathing.  I  thought  he  was  better;  bnt  his 
thin  white  face,  with  the  dark  earnest,  glistening  eyes,  was  al- 
most painful  to  look  upon. 

"  The  reading-gentleman  have  been  in,"  cried  the  woman 
suddenly.  "He's  coming  again,  he  says,  the  night  or  the 
morning." 

Tod  looked  puzzled,  and  Jake  explained.  A  good  young 
clergyiTian,  who  had  found  him  ont  a  day  or  two  before,  had 
been  in  each  day  since  with  his  Bible,  to  read  and  pray.  "  God 
bless  him  !  "  said  Jake. 

"  Why  did  you  go  aM-ay  so  suddenly  ? "  Tod  asked,  alluding 
to  the  hasty  depai-ture  from  Cookhill.  "  My  father  was  in- 
tending to  do  something  for  you." 

"  i  didn't  know  that,  sir     Many  thanks  all  the  same.     I'd 


FINDING    BOTH    OF   THEM.  41 

like  to  thank  you  too,  sir,"  he  went  on,  after  a  fit  of  coughing 
"I've  wanted  to  thank  you  ever  since.  AVTien  jou  gave  nie 
your  arm  up  the  lane,  and  said  them  pleasant  things  to  me 
about  having  a  little  child  in  heaven,  you  knew  she  was  gone." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  broke  the  trouble  to  me,  sir.  M3'  wife  heard  me  cough- 
ing afar  oif,  and  came  out  o'  the  tent.  She  didn't  say  at  first 
what  there  was  in  the  tent,  but  began  telling  how  you  had  been 
there.  It  made  me  know  what  had  happened  ;  and  when  she 
set  on  a-grieving,  1  told  her  not  to:  Carry  was  gone  up  to  be 
an  angel  in  Heaven." 

Tod  touched  the  hand  he  put  out,  not  speaking. 

"  She's  waiting  for  me,  sir,"  he  continued,  in  a  fainter 
whisper.  "  I'm  as  sure  of  it  as  if  1  saw  her.  The  little  girl  I 
found  and  carried  to  the  great  house  has  got  rich  friends  and 
a  fine  home  to  shelter  her ;  mine  had  none,  and  so  it  was  for 
the  best  that  she  should  go.  (ilod  has  been  very  good  to  me. 
Instead  of  letting  me  fret  after  her,  or  murmur  at  lying  help- 
less like  this.  He  only  gives  me  peace." 

"  That  uian  must  have  had  a  good  mother,"  cried  out  Tod 
as  we  went  away  down  the  entry.  And  I  looked  up  at  him, 
he  spoke  so  queerly. 

"  Do  you  think  lie  will  get  better,  Tod  ?  He  does  not 
seem  as  bad  as  he  did  last  night." 

"  Get  better ! "  retorted  Tod.  "  Ton'll  always  be  a  muff, 
Johnny.  Why,  every  breath  he  takes  threatens  to  be  his  last. 
He  is  miles  worse  than  he  was  when  we  found  him.  This  is 
Thursdav  :  I  don't  believe  he  can  last  out  lono^er  than  the 
week ;  and  I  think  Mr.  Garden  knows  it." 

He  did  not  last  so  long.  On  the  Saturday  morning,  just  a? 
we  were  going  to  start  for  home,  the  wife  came  to  the  Star 
with  the  news.     Jake  had  died  at  ten  the  previous  night, 

"  He  went  off  quiet,"  said  she  to  the  Squire.  "  I  asked  if 
he'd  not  like  a  dhrink  ;  but  he  wouldn't  have  it :  the  good 
gentleman  had  been  there  gi\"ing  him  the  ])read  and  wine, 
and  he  said  he'd  take  nothing,  he  thought,  after  that.     '  I'm 


42 


KIN'DINQ    BOTH    OF    THEM. 


going,  Mary,' he  suddenly  says  to  me  about  ten  o'clock,  and  he 
called  Dor  up  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  ba-de  him  be  good 
to  me,  and  then  he  shook  hands  with  me.  '  God  bless  ye  both,' 
savs  he,  '  for  Christ  sake  :  and  God  bless  the  friends  who  have 
been  kind  to  us ! '     And  with  that  he  died." 

That's  all,  for  now.     Aiid  I  hope  no  v)ne.  will  think  I  invent 
ed  the  uccount  of  Jake's  death,  for  I  should  not  like  to  do  it. 
The  Avife  related  it  to  us  in  the  exact  words  written. 

"  And  I  able  to  do  so  little  for  him ! "  broke  forth  the 
Squire,  suddenly,  when  we  were  about  half  way  home ;  and 
he  latched  up  Bob  and  Blister  regardless  of  their  tempers. 
AVhich  the  animals  did  not  relish. 

And  so  that  assize  week  ended  the  matter.  Bringing  im- 
prisoujneut  to  the  kidnapping  woman,  and  to  Jake  death. 


tr^? 


4' 


III. 

WOLFE    BAPvPJNGTOJ^'S    TAMING. 

-^^fllllS  is  an  incident  of  our  school  life;  one  that  J 
4^Jif  never  care  to  look  back  npon.  All  of  us  liave  sad 
remembrances  of  some  kind  living  in  the  mind  ; 
and  we  are  apt  in  our  painful  regret  to  say,  "If  1 
had  but  done  this,  or  Lad  but  done  the  other,  things  might 
have  turned  out  differently." 

The  school  was  a  large  square  house,  built  of  rough  stone, 
gardens  and  playgrounds  and  fields  extending  around  it.  It 
was  called  Worcester  House  :  a  title  of  the  fancy,  I  suppose, 
since  it  was  some  miles  away  from  Yforcester.  The  master 
vras  Dr.  Frost,  a  tall,  stout  man,  in  white  frilled  shirt,  knee- 
breeches  and  buckles  ;  stern  on  occasion,  but  a  gentleman  to 
the  backbone.  He  had  several  under  masters.  Forty  boys 
were  received  ;  we  wore  the  college  cap  and  Eton  jacket. 
Mrs.  Frost  was  delicate :  and  Hall,  a  sour  old  woman  of  fifty, 
was  manager  of  the  eatables. 

Tod  and  I  must  have  been  in  the  school  two  years,  I 
think,  when  Archie  Hearn  entered.  He  was  eleven  years 
old.  We  had  seen  him  at  the  house  sometimes  before,  and 
liked  him.     A  regular  good  little  fellow  was  Archie. 

Ilearn's  fatlier  was  dead.  His  mother  had  been  a  Misa 
Stockhausen,  sister  to  Mrs.  Frost.  The  Stockhausens  had  a 
name  in  Worcestershire :  chiefly.  I  think,  for  dying  off. 
There  had  been  six  sisters  ;  and  the  only  two  now  left  were 
Mrs.  Frost  and  Mrs.  Hearn;  the  other  four  quietly  decayed 
%way  one  after  another,  not  living  to  see  thii'ty.      Mr.  Huarn 


44  WOLFE  barrington's  taming. 

died  (from  an  accident)  wlien  Archie  was  onl}'  a  year  old, 
He  left  no  will,  and  there  ensued  a  sharp  dispute  about  hia 
property.  The  Stockhausens  said  it  all  belonged  to  the  little 
son  ;  the  Ilearn  family  considered  a  portion  of  it  ought  to  go 
back  to  them.  The  poor  widow  was  the  only  cpiiet  spirit 
amidst  them,  willing  to  be  led  either  way.  AVhat  the  disjmt- 
ants  did  Avas  to  put  it  into  Chancery;  and  I  don't  much  think 
it  ever  came  out  a<;ain. 

It  Mas  the  woi-st  move  they  could  have  made  for  Mrs.  TIearn. 
For  it  reduced  her  to  a  very  slender  income,  indeed,  and  the 
world  wondered  how  she  got  on  at  all.  She  lived  in  a  cotta«:e 
about  thi-ee  miles  off  the  Frosts,  with  one  servant  and  the  lit- 
tle child  Archibald.  In  the  course  of  years  people  seemed 
to  forget  all  about  the  property  in  Chancery,  and  to  ignore 
her  as  quite  a  poor  woman. 

"Well,  we — I  and  Tod — had  been  at  Dr.  Frost's  two  years 
or  so,  when  Archibald  Ilearn  entered  the  school.  He  was  a 
slender  little  lad  with  bright  brown  eyes,  a  delicate  face  and 
red  cheeks,  very  sweet-tempered  and  j^leasant  in  manner.  At 
first  he  usL'd  to  go  home  at  night,  but  when  the  winter  weather 
set  in  he  got  a  cough,  and  he  then  came  into  the  house  alto- 
gether. Some  of  the  big  ones  felt  sure  that  old  Fi-ost  took 
him  for  nothing :  but  as  little  Ilearn  was  Mrs.  Frost's 
ne})hcw  and  we  liked  hei\  no  talk  was  made  over  it.  The 
lad  did  not  much  like  conn'ng  into  the  house :  we  could  see 
that.  He  seemed  alwavs  to  be  hankerinir  after  his  mother 
and  old  Betty  the  servant.  Not  in  words :  but  he'd  stand 
M-ith  his  arms  on  the  play -yard  gate,  and  his  eyes  gazing  out 
to  the  quarter  where  the  cottage  was;  as  if  he'd  like  his  sight 
to  leap  the  wood  and  the  two  or  three  miles  of  distance, 
and  tiiko  a  look  at  it.  When  any  of  us  said  to  him  as 
a  bit  of  chaff,  "  You  are  staring  after  old  Betty,"  he  would 
say  Yes,  he  wished  he  could  see  her  and  his  motlici-;  and 
then  tell  no  end  of  tales  about  what  Betty  had  done  for  him 
in  his  illnesses.  Any  way,  Ilearn  was  a  straightforward  lit- 
tle chap,  and  a  favourite  in  the  school. 


WOLFE   BARRENGTOn's   TAMING.  45 

He  had  been  with  us  about  a  year  when  Wolfe  Barrington 
caine.  Quite  anothei'sort  of  pupil.  A  big  strong  fellow  who 
Lad  never  had  a  mother :  ricli  and  overbearing,  and  cruel 
enough.  He  was  in  black  from  head  to  foot  for  his  father,  who 
had  just  died:  a  rich  Irishman,  given  to  compan}'  and  strong 
living.  Wolfe  came  in  for  all  the  money ;  so  that  he  had 
a  fine  career  before  him  and  might  be  expected  to  set  the 
world  on  fire.  Little  llearn's  stories  had  been  of  home  ;  of  his 
mother  and  old  Betty.  Wolfe's  were  different.  Lie  had  had 
the  run  of  his  father's  stables  and  knew  more  about  horses  and 
dogs  than  the  anim.als  themselves.  Curious  things,  too,  he'd  tell 
of  men  and  women,  who  had  stayed  at  old  L^arrington's  place  : 
and  what  he  said  of  the  public  school  he  had  been  at  might 
have  made  old  Frost's  hair  stand  on  end.  Why  he  quitted  the 
public  school  we  did  not  find  out:  some  said  he  liad  run  away 
from  it,  and  that  his  father,  who'd  indulged  him  awfully, 
would  not  send  him  back  to  be  punished ;  others  said  the  public 
masters  would  not  receive  him  back.  In  the  nick  of  time  the 
father  died ;  and  Wolfe's  guardians  put  him  at  Dr.  Frost's. 

"  I  shall  make  you  my  fag,"  said  Barrington,  the  day  he 
entered,  catching  hold  of  little  Ilearn  in  the  playground,  and 
twisting  him  round  by  the  arm. 

"  What's  that  ? "  asked  Ilearn,  rubbing  his  arm  —  for  Wolfe's 
grasp  had  not  been  a  light  one. 

'"  What's  that ! "  repeated  Barrington,  scornfully.  "  What  a 
precious  young  fool  you  must  be,  not  to  know.  \Vho's  your 
mother  ? " 

"  She  lives  over  thei-e,"  answered  Ilearn,  taking  the  ques- 
tion literally,  and  nodding  beyond  the  wood. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Barrington,  twisting  his  mouth.  "  What's  her 
name  ?     And  what's  yours  ? " 

"  :Mrs.  Ilearn.     Min.e's  Archibald. " 

"  Good,  Mr.  Archi  bald.  You  shall  be  my  fag.  That  is,  my 
servant.  And  you'll  do  every  earthly  thing  that  I  order  you 
to  do.  And  mind  you  do  it  smartly,  or  maybe  that  gii-l'g 
face  of  yours  will  show  out  rather  green  sometimes." 


46  WOLFE  barrington's  taming. 

"  I  shall  not  be  anybody's  servant,"  returned  Archie,  in  hia 
mild,  inoffensive  wa}'. 

"  Won't  you  !  You'll  tell  me  another  tale  before  this  time 
to-morrow.     Did  you  ever  get  licked  into  next  week?  " 

The  child  made  no  answer,  lie  began  to  thiidv  the  new 
fellow  might  be  in  earnest,  and  gazed  up  at  him  in  questioning 
doubt. 

"  When  your  two  eyes  can't  see  out  for  the  swelling  round 
them,  and  your  back's  stiff  with  smarting  and  aching — tha^& 
the  kind  of  licking  I  mean,"  went  on  Barringtou.  "  Did  you 
ever  taste  it  % " 

"  No,  sir. " 

"  Good  again.  It  will  be  the  sweeter  when  you  do.  Now 
look  you  here,  Mr.  Archibald  Hearn.  I  appoint  you  my  fag 
in  ordinary.  You'll  fetch  and  carry  for  me:  you'll  black  my 
boots  and  brush  my  clothes  ;  you'll  sit  up  to  wait  on  me  when 
I  go  to  bed,  and  read  me  to  sleep ;  you^l  be  dressed  before  1 
am  in  the  morning,  and  be  ready  with  my  clothes  and  hot 
water.  Never  mind  M'hether  the  rules  of  the  house  are  against 
hot  water,  yotCll  have  to  provide  it,  though  you  boil  it  on  sticks 
in  the  bed- room  grate,  or  out  in  the  nearest  field.  You'll  attend 
me  at  my  lessons;  look  out  words  for  me  ;  copy  my  exercises 
in  a  fair  hand — and  if  you  were  old  enough  to  do  them,  you'd 
have  to.  That's  a  few  of  the  items  ;  but  there  are  a  hundred 
other  thino;s,  that  I've  not  time  to  detail.  If  I  can  o;et  a  horse 
for  my  use,  you'll  have  to  groom  him.  And  if  you  don't  put 
out  your  mettle  to  serve  me  in  all  these  ways,  and  don't  hold 
yourself  in  readiness  to  iiy  and  obey  me  at  any  minute  or  hour. 
You'll  get  one  of  the  lickings  I've  told  you  of  every  day,  until 
you  are  licked  into  shape." 

Barringtou  meant  what  he  said.  Voice  and  countenance 
alike  wore  a  carelesslv  determined  look,  as  if  his  words  were 
law.  Lots  of  the  fellows,  attracted  by  the  talking,  had  gathered 
round.  Ilearn,  honest  and  straightforward  himself,  did  not 
altogether  understand  what  evil  might  be  iu  store  for  him,  and 
grew  eeriously  fj-ightened. 


■WOLFE   BARRINGTOn's   TAXIING.  47 

The  captain  of  the  school  walked  np — John  "Wliitnej. 
"What  is  that  jon  say  Hearn  has  pjot  to  do?  "  he  asked. 

"  Hi  knows  now,"  answered  Barrino-ton.  "  That's  enouij-h. 
Thej  don't  allow  servau;s  here:  I  must  have  a  fag  in  place 
of  one." 

In  turnino;  his  fascinated  eves  from  Barrino-ton,  Hearn  saw 
Blair  standing  by,  onr  matliematical  master — of  whom  you 
will  hear  more  later.  Blair  must  have  caught  what  passed: 
aud  little  Hearn  appealed  to  him. 

"  Am  I  obliged  to  be  his  fag,  sir  ? " 

Mr.  Blair  put  lis  leisurely  aside  with  his  hands,  and  confront- 
ed the  new  fellow.  "  Your  name  is  Barrington,  I  think,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Barrington,  staring  at  him  defiantly. 

"  Allow  me  to  tell  you  that  'fags'  are  not  permitted  here. 
The  system  would  not  be  tolerated  by  Dr.  Frost  for  a  moment. 
Each  boy  must  wait  on  himself,  and  be  responsible  for  himself: 
seniors  and  juniors  alike.  You  are  not  at  a  public  school  now, 
Barrington.  In  a  day  or  two,  when  you  shall  have  learnt  the 
in-door  customs  and  rules  here,  I  daresay  you  will  find  your- 
self quite  sufficiently  comfortable,  and  see  that  a  fag  would  be 
an  unnecessary  appendage." 

"  \Vho  is  that  man  \ "  cried  Barrington,  as  Blair  turned 
awav. 

"  Mathematical  master.  Sees  to  us  out  of  liours,"  answered 
Bill  Whitney. 

"  And  what  the  devil  did  vou  mean  by  makinsr  a  sneakinof 
appeal  to  Jdin  f"  continued  Barrington,  seizing  Hearn  roughly. 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  for  sneaking ;  but  I  could  not  do  what 
you  wanted,"  said  Hearn.     "He  had  been  listening  to  us." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  that  confounded  fool,  Taptal,  had  been 
fcink  in  his  horse-pond  before  he  put  me  to  such  a  place  aa 
i^iis,  "  cried  Barrington,  passionately.  "  As  to  you,  you  sneak- 
ing little  devil,  it  seems  I  can't  make  you  do  what  I  wanted, 
fags  being  forbidden  fruit  here,  but  it  shan't  eei  ve  you  much. 
Tbere's  to  beo-in  with  " 


48  WOLFE  bakkington's  taming. 

Ilearn  got  a  shake  and  a  kick  that  sent  him  flying.  Blaii 
was  back  on  the  inst.'int. 

"  Are  you  a  cowai  d,  Mr.  Ban-ington  ? " 

"  A  coward  !  "  retorted  Barrington,  his  eyes  flashing.  "You 
had  better  try  -whether  I  am  ov  not.  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  3'on  act  like  one,  in  attacking  a  lad  so 
v.tich  younger  and  weaker  than  yourself.  Don't  let  me  have 
to  report  you  to  Dr.  Frost  the  first  day  of  your  arrival. 
Another  thing — I  must  request  you  to  be  a  little  more  careful 
in  your  language.  You  have  come  amidst  gentlemen  here, 
not  blackguards." 

The  matter  ended  at  this ;  but  Barrington  looked  in  a  fright- 
ful raije.  It  was  unfortunate  that  it  should  have  occurred  the 
day  he  entered  ;  but  it  did,  ^vord  for  word,  as  I  have  written 
it.  It  set  some  of  us  rather  ai>;ainst  Barrino;ton,  and  it  set  him 
against  Ilearn.  lie  didn't  "  lick  him  into  next  week,"  but  he 
gave  him  man}^  a  blow  that  the  boy  did  nothing  to  deserve. 

Barriuiiton  won  his  wav,  thoui>'h,  as  the  time  went  on.  He 
liad  a  large  supply  of  money,  and  was  open-handed  with  it; 
and  he'd  often  do  a  generous  turn  for  one  and  another.  The 
worst  of  hint  was  his  savage  roughness.  At  play  he  was 
always  rough,  and,  when  put  out,  savage  as  well.  His  strength 
and  activitv  wci'e  sonietiiinii;  remarkable:  he  would  not  have 
minded  hard  blows  hiinsi'if,  and  he  showered  them  out  on  others 
with  no  more  care  than  if  we  had  been  made  of  pumice- 
stone. 

It  was  Barj-ington  who  introduced  the  new  system  at  foot- 
ball. We  had  played  it  before  in  a  rather  mild  manner, 
speaking  comparatively,  but  he  soon  changed  that.  Dr.  Frost 
got  to  know  of  it  in  time,  and  he  appeared  amongst  us  one 
day  when  we  were  in  the  thick  of  it,  and  stopped  the  game 
with  a  sweep  of  his  hand.  They  play  it  at  Itugby  now  very 
much  as  B;irring[oii  niuile  us  play  it  then.  The  Doctor — 
Btaiiding  wirli  his  face  unusually  red,  and  his  shirt  and  necktie 
unusually  white,  and  his  knee-buckles  shining — asked  whether 
we  were  a  pack  of  African  cannibals,  that  we  should  kick  at 


WOLFE  barrfngton's  taminp  4S( 

one  another  in  tliat  dangerous  manner.    If  we  ever  attempted 
it  again,  lie  said,  football  should  be  interdicted. 

So  we  went  back  to  the  old  way.  But  we  had  tried  the  new, 
you  see :  and  the  consequence  was  that  nndue  roughness  would 
creep  into  it  now  and  again.  Barrington  led  it  on.  Xo  African 
camiibal  (as  old  Frost  put  it)  could  have  been  more  incautiously 
furious  at  it  than  he.  To  see  him  with  liis  sallow  face  in  a 
steam,  and  his  keen  black  eyes  shining,  his  hat  off,  and  his 
straight  hair  Hung  behind,  was  not  the  pleasantest  sight  to  my 
mind.  Snepp  said  one  day  that  he  looked  just  like  the  devil 
at  these  times.  Wolfe  Barrington  overheard,  and  kicked  him 
ri<>-ht  over  the  hillock.  1  don't  think  he  was  ill-intentioned ;  but 
liis powerful  frame  had  been  untamed;  it  required  a  vent  for 
its  supei-fluous  strength  :  his  animal  spirits  led  him  away,  and 
he  had  never  been  taught  to  put  a  curb  on  himself  or  his  incli- 
nations. One  thing  was  certain — that  the  name,  Wolfe,  for 
such  a  nature  as  his,  was  singularly  appropriate.  Some  of  us 
told  him  so.  He  laughed  in  answer;  never  saying  that  it  was 
only  so  shortened  from  Woltrey,  which  was  his  real  name,  as  we 
learnt  later.  He  could  be  as  good  a  fellow  and  comrade  as 
any  of  them  when  he  chose,  and  on  the  whole  we  liked  him  a 
great  deal  better  than  we  had  thought  we  should  at  iirst. 

As  to  the  animosity  against  little  Hearn,  it  was  wearing  off. 
The  lad  was  too  young  to  retaliate,  and  Barrington  got  tired  of 
knockiug  him  about :  perhaps  a  little  ashamed  of  it  when  there 
was  no  return.  In  a  twelvemonth's  time  it  had  quite  subsided, 
and,  to  the  surprise  of  many  of  us,  Barrington  (coming  back 
from  a  visit  to  his  guard  ian,  old  Taptal)  brought  Hearn  a  hand- 
some knife  of  three  blades  as  a  present. 

And  BO  it  w(juld  have  gone  on  but  for  an  unfortunate  oc- 
currence. I  shall  always  say  and  think  so.  But  for  that,  it 
might  have  been  peace  between  them  to  the  end  and  the  end. 
Barrington,  who  was  defiantly  independent,  had  betaken  him- 
self to  Evesham,  one  half-holiday,  without  leave.  He  walked 
etraight  into  some  mischief  theie,  and  broke  a  street  boy's 
head.     Dr.  Frost  was  appealed  to  by  the  boy's  father,  and  of 


50  WOLFE  HA  RRmo  ton's  tamino. 

course  tlierc  was  a  row.  The  Doctor  forbade  Barriiigton  ever 
to  stir  hovoiid  l^ouuds  again  without  fiist  obtaining  permission  ; 
and  l>]air  had  orders  that  iov  a  fortnii'ht  to  come  Barrino-toii 
was  to  be  confined  to  the  play -ground  in  affer  hours. 

Vei-y  g()()(K  A  day  or  two  after — on  the  next  Saturday 
afternoon — the  school  went  to  a  cricket-match  ;  Doctor,  mas- 
ters, boys,  and  all ;  Barrington  oidy  being  left  behind. 

Was  he  one  to  stand  this  ?  No.  lie  coolly  walked  away  to 
the  high  road,  saw  a  public  conveyance  passing,  hailed  it, 
mounted  it  and  was  carried  to  Evesham.  There  he  disported 
himself  for  an  hour  or  so,  visited  the  chief  fruit  and  tart  shops  ; 
and  then  chartered  a  gig  to  bring  him  back  to  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  school's  enti-ance. 

The  cricket-inatch  was  not  over  when  he  got  in,  for  it  lasted 
up  to  the  dark  of  the  summer  evening,  and  nobody  would  have 
known  of  the  escapade  but  for  one  miserable  misfortune — 
Archie  Ilearn  ha]:)pened  to  have  gone  that  afternoon  to  Eves- 
ham with  his  mother.  They  were  passing  along  the  street, 
and  he  saw  Baninij-ton  amid  the  sweets. 

"  There's  V/olfe  Barrington  !  "  said  Archie,  in  the  surprise 
of  the  moment,  and  would  have  halted  at  the  tart-shop  door  ; 
but  Mrs.  llearn,  who  was  in  a  hurry,  did  not  stop.  On  the 
Monday,  she  brought  Archie  back  to  school :  he  had  been  at 
home,  sick,  for  moi'e  than  a  week,  and  knew  nothing  of  Bar- 
rington's  punishment.  Archie  came  amidst  us  at  once,  but 
Mrs.  llearn  stayed  to  take  tea  with  her  sister  and  Dr.  Frost. 
Without  the  slightest  intention  to  (ireate  mischief,  quite  una- 
ware that  she  was  doing  it,  Mrs  llearn  mentioned  incidentally 
that  thev  had  seen  one  of  the  bovs — B>ari'ino;ton — at  Evesham 
on  the  Saturday.  Dr.  Frost  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  news  ; 
not  believing  it,  however  :  but  Mrs.  llearn  said  3'es,  for  Archie 
had  seen  him  eating  tarts  at  the  confectioner's.  The  Doctor 
finished  his  tea,  went  to  his  study,  and  sent  for  Barrington. 
Barrrino;ton  denied  it.  He  was  not  in  the  hal)it  of  "^ellini):  lies, 
was  too  feailess  of  consequences  to  do  anything  of  the  kind  ; 
biit  lie  denied  it  now  to  the  Doctor's   face ;  perhaps  he  bega» 


WOLFE    BARRINGTON'8   TA^SnXG.  ■J  i 

to  think  he  mi^^ht  have  gone  a  little  too  far.     Dr.  Frost  rang 
the  bell  and  ordered  Arcliie  Hearn  in. 

"  AVhich  shop  was  Barrington  in  when  yon  saw  him  on  Satnr- 
day?"  qnestioned  the  Doctor. 

"  The  pastry  cook's,"  said  Archie,  iiniocently. 

"  What  was  he  doing?"  blandly  went  on  the  Doctor. 

"  Oh  1  no  harm,  sir ;  only  eating  tarts,"  Archie  hastened  to  say 

Well — it  all  came  out  then,  and  thongh  Archie  was  entirely 
innocent  of  wilfully  telling  tales:  would  have  cut  out  his 
tongue  rather  than  have  said  a  word  to  harm  Barrington,  he 
got  the  credit  of  it  now.  Barrington  took  his  punishment 
without  a  word ;  the  hardest  caning  old  Frost  had  given  for 
many  a  long  day,  and  heaps  of  work  besides,  and  a  promise  of 
certain  expulsion  if  he  ever  went  off  surreptitiously  in  coaches 
and  gigs  again.  But  Barrington  thrashed  Hearn  worse  when 
it  was  over,  and  branded  him  with  the  name  of  Tell-tale 
Sneak. 

"  He  will  never  believe  otherwise,"  said  Archie,  the  tears  oi 
pain  and  mortification  running  down  his  cheeks,  fresh  and 
delicate  as  a  girl's.  ''  But  Fd  give  the  world  not  to  have  gont» 
that  afternoon  to  Evesham." 

A  week  or  two  later  we  went  in  for  a  turn  at  "  ITare  and 
Hounds."  Barrington's  term  of  punishment  was  over  then. 
Snepp  was  the  hare ;  a  lleet  wiry  fellow  who  could  outrun 
most  of  ns.  But  the  liare  this  time  came  to  grief.  After 
doubling  and  turning,  as  Snepp  used  to  like  to  do,  thinkhig  to 
throw  ns  off  the  scent,  he  sprained  his  foot,  trying  to  leap  a 
hedge  and  dry  ditch  beyond  it.  We  were  on  his  trail,  whoop- 
ing and  halloaing  like  mad  ;  he  kept  quiet,  and  we  passed  on 
and  never  saw  him.  But  there  Avas  no  more  scent  to  be  seen 
(little  pieces  of  white  paper  that  Snepp  had  to  let  fall  as  he 
ran),  and  we  found  we  had  lost  it,  and  went  back.  Snepp 
showed  himself  then,  and  the  sport  was  over  for  the  day. 
Some  went  home  one  way,  and  some  another ;  all  of  ns  were 
as  hot  as  Jupiter,  and  thirsting  for  water. 

"  If  you'll  turn  dowii  here  by  the  great  oak  tree,  we  glial] 


52  WOLFE  Harrington's  tamfng. 

coKie  to  iny  mother's  lionse,  and  yon  can  have  as  mnch  water 
as  yon  like,"  saiJ  little  Ilearn,  in  his  irood-natni-e. 

So  we  tnnied  down.  TIutc  were  l)nt  six  or  seven  of  lis,  for 
Siiepp  and  his  damaged  foot  made  one,  and  most  of  them 
had  gone  on  at  a  qnicker  pace.  Tod  helped  Snepp  on  one 
side,  Barrington  on  the  other;  he  limping  along  between 
them. 

It  was  a  narrow  red-brick  honse,  a  parlour  window  on  each 
side  the  door,  and  three  windows  above  ;  small  altogether,  bnt 
very  pretty,  with  the  jessamine  and  clematis  climbing  np  the 
walls.  Archie  Ilearn  opened  the  door,  and  we  trooped  in, 
withont  any  regard  to  ceremony.  JMrs.  Ilearn — she  had  the 
same  delicate  face  that  Archie  had,  the  same  rose-pink  colonr 
and  bright  brown  eyes — came  ont  of  the  kitchen  to  stare.  Aa 
well  she  might.  Iler  cotton  gown  sleeves  were  turned  np  to 
the  elbows,  her  fingers  were  stained  red,  and  she  had  a  coarse 
kitchen  cloth  pinned  round  her.  She  was  pressing  black  cur- 
rants for  jelly. 

Wq  had  plenty  of  water,  and  Mrs.  Ilearn  made  Snepp  sit 
down,  and  looked  at  his  foot,  and  put  a  wet  bandage  round 
kneeling  before  him  to  do  it.  I  th<jught  I  had  never  seen  so 
nice  a  face  as  hers ;  very  placid,  with  a  kind  of  sad  look  in  it. 
Old  Betty,  that  Ilearn  used  to  talk  alxjut,  appeared  in  a  short 
olue  petticoat  and  a  sort  of  jacket  of  brown  print.  I  have  seen 
homely  servants  in  France,  since  dressed  very  similarly. 
Siiepp  thanked  Mrs.  Ilearn  for  giving  his  foot  relief,  and  we 
took  oft  our  hats  to  her  as  we  went  away. 

The  same  night,  before  Bhiir  called  us  in  for  prayers, 
Archie  Ilearn  heard  Barrington  giving  a  sneering  account  of 
the  visit  to  some  of  the  fellows  in  the  ])la3'gr()iind. 

"Just  like  a  cook,  you  know.  Miirht  be  taken  for  one. 
Some  coarse  bunting  tied  round  her  middle,  and  hands  steeped 
in  red  kitchen  stuff." 

"  My  mother  could  never  be  taken  for  anything  but  a  lady," 
spoke  up  Archie  bravely.  "  A  lady  may  n  ake  jelly.  A  greal 
many  ladies  prefer  to  do  it  themselves." 


■woLrE  barrington's  taming.  53 

"  !N"owyoiibe  off,"  cried  Barriiigton,  turning  on  him  sharply 
"Keep  at  a  distance  from  your  betters." 

"  There's  nolxxlv  in  the  workl  better  than  mv  mother,"  re 
turned  the  boy,  standing  his  ground,  and  flushing  a  painfu.1 
flnsli :  for,  in  truth,  the  small  way  they  were  obliged  to  live  in, 
through  Chancery  retaining  hold  of  the  property,  made  a  soro 
place  in  a  c(U'ner  of  Archie's  heart.  "  Ask  Joseph  Todhetloy 
what  he  thinks  of  her.  Ask  John  Whitney.  They  j-ecognize 
her  for  a  lady." 

"  But  then  they  are  gentlemen,  themselves." 

It  was  I  put  in  that.  I  couldn't  belp  having  a  fling  at  Bar- 
rington.     A  bit  of  applause  followed,  and  stnnghim. 

"  If  3"ou  shove  in  your  oar,  Johnny  Ludlow,  or  presume  to 
interfere  with  me,  I'll  pummel  you  to  powder.     There." 

Barrington  kicked  out  on  all  sides  of  him,  sending  as  back. 
The  bell  rang  for  prayers  then,  and  we  had  to  go  in. 

The  game  the  next  evening  was  football.  We  went  out  te 
it  as  soon  as  tea  was  over,  to  the  held  by  the  river  towaixla 
Vale  Farm.  I  can't  tell  much  al)out  its  progress,  save  thai. 
the  pla}'  seemed  rougher  and  louder  than  usual.  Once  there 
was  a  reo-idar  scrimmaii-e  :  scores  of  feet  kickino;  out  at  once  ; 
great  struggling  and  pushing  and  shouting :  and  when  the  ball 
got  otf,  and  the  tail  after  it  in  full  hue  and  cry,  one  was  left 
behind  lying  on  the  ground. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  turned  my  head  back;  it  was  the 
merest  chance  that  I  did  turn  it :  and  I  saw  Tod  kneelinij  ou 
the  grass,  raising  a  boy's  head. 

'^  Holloa!"  said  I,  running  back.  "  Anything  aniiss?  Who 
is  it?" 

It  was  little  Ilearn.  He  had  his  eyes  shut.  Tod  did  not 
fepeak. 

"  AVhat's  the  matter,  T. >(! ?     Is  he  hurt ? " 

"  Well,  I  think  he's  hurt  a  little,"  was  Tod's  answer.  "  lie 
has  had  a  kick  here." 

Tod  touched  the  left  temple  with  the  point  of  his  finger, 
drawing  the  finger  down  as  far  as  the  back  of  the  ear,  to  indi 


54  WOLFE    BARRrNGTON'8   TAJ^HNO. 

cute  the  part  he  meant.     It  must  liave  been  a  good  wide  kick, 
I  thon^-lit. 

"  It  has  stiniiK'il  liim.  pcjor  little  fellow.  Can  you  get  some 
water  from  the  river,  Joliimy  ?  " 

'•  I  could  if  I  had  anvtliino:  to  brine:  it  in.  It  would  leak 
out  of  my  hat  long  before  I  got  liere."  For  the  hat  was  of 
straw. 

But  little  Ilearn  made  amove  then,  and  opened  his  eyes. 
Presently  he  sat  up,  putting  his  hands  to  his  head.  Tod  was 
as  tender  with  him  as  a  mother. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Archie?" 

«  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  I  think.     A  bit  giddy." 

Getting  on  his  feet,  he  looked  from  me  to  Tod  in  a  bewil 
dered  manner.     I  thought  it  odd.     He  said  he'd  not  join  the 
game  again,  but  would  go  in  and  rest.     Tod  went  with  hira^ 
ordering  me  to  keep  with  the  players.     Ilearn  walked  all  right^ 
and  did  not  seem  to  be  much  the  worse  foi-  it. 

"What's  the  matter  now  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hall,  in  her  cranky 
way ;  for  she  happened  to  be  in  the  yard  wdien  they  entei-cd, 
Tod  marshalling  little  Ilearn  by  the  arm. 

"  He  has  had  a  blow  at  football,"  answered  Tod.  "  Here" 
— showing  the  place  he  had  shown  me. 

"  A  kick,  I  suppose  yon  mean,"  said  Mother  Hall. 

"  Yes,  if  you  like  to  call  it  so.     It  was  a  blow  with  a  foot." 

"Did  you  do  it,  Master  Todhetley?" 

"No  I  did  not,"  retorted  Tod. 

"  I  wonder  the  Doctor  allows  that  football  to  be  played  ?" 
ehe  went  on,  grumbling.  "I  wouldn't,  if  I  kept  a  school;  1 
know  that.     It  is  a  l)arbaroas,  cruel  game,  fit  only  for  bears." 

"  I  am  all  right,"  put  in  Ilearn.  "  I  needn't  have  co-  e  in 
but  for  feeling  giddy." 

But  he  was  not  (piite  right  yet.  l^bi  without  the  slightest 
warning,  l>cfore  he  had  tinie  to  stir  from  where  he  stood,  he 
became  fi'ightfully  sick.  Hall  ran  for  a  basin  and  some  warm 
water.     Tod  h(;ld  his  head. 

"  This  is  through  having  gobbled  down  yom*  tea  in  6uch  a 


woi-FE  bakkixgton's  tamtxg.  55 

mortal  liurrv,  to  be  off  to  that  precious  footlall,"  decided  ILill 
reseutfully.  "  The  wonder  is,  that  the  whole  crew  of  juu  are 
not  sick,  swallowiiio;  vour  food  at  the  rate  vou  do." 

"  I  think  I'll  lie  on  the  bed  for  a  bit,"  said  Archie,  when  the 
sickness  had  passed.     "  I  shall  l)e  up  again  by  snpper  time." 

Thev  went  with  him  to  his  room.  Neither  of  them  had  the 
sliglitest  notion  that  he  was  hnrt  seriously,  or  that  there  couKl 
be  any  danger.  Archie  took  off  his  jacket,  and  lay  down  in  his 
other  clothes.  Mrs  Hall  offered  to  bring  him  up  a  cup  of  tea  ; 
but  he  said  it  miirht  make  him  sick  again,  and  lie\l  rather  be 
quiet.  She  went  down,  and  Tod  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Archie  shut  his  eyes  and  kept  still.  Tod  thought  he  was  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep,  and  began  to  creep  out  of  the  room.  The  eyes 
opened  then,  and  Archie  called  to  iiini. 

"  Todhetley  ? " 

"  I  am  here,  old  fellow.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  You'll  tell  him  I  forgive  him,"  said  Ai-chic,  speaking  in  an 
earnest  whisper.    "Tell  him  I  know  he  didn't  thinkto  hurt  me." 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  him,"  answered  Tod  lightly. 

"And  be  sure  give  my  dear  love  to  mamma." 

«  So  I  will." 

"  And  now  I'll  go  to  sleep,  or  I  sha'n't  be  down  to  supper. 
You  will  come  and  call  me  if  I  am  not,  wt)n't  you?" 

"  All  right,"  said  Tod,  tucking  the  counterpane  about  him. 
"  Are  you  comfortable,  Archie  ?  " 

"  Quite.     Thank  you." 

Tod  came  on  to  the  field  again,  and  joined  the  game. 
It  was  a  little  less  rongli,  and  there  were  no  more  mishaps. 
We  got  home  later  than  usual,  and  the  supper  stood  on  the 
table. 

The  suppers  at  Worcester  House  were  always  the  same. 
Bi-ead  and  cheese.  And  not  too  nuich  of  it.  Half  a  round 
off  the  loaf,  with  a  piece  of  cheese,  for  each  fellow  ;  and  a  sinaL' 
drop  of  beer  or  water.  Our  other  meals  were  good  and  plenti- 
ful ;  but  the  Doctor  waged  war  with  heavy  suppers.  If  old 
[lall  had  had  her  way,  we  should  have  had  none.    Little  Hearn 


66  WOLFE  barrixgton's  taming. 

did  not  appear;  and  Tod,  biting  at  his  bread  and  cheese,  went 
np  to  look  after  him.     I  f()lk)wed. 

Opening  tlie  door  without  noise,  we  stood  listening  and  look- 
ing. Not  that  there  was  much  good  in  looking,  for  the  rooic 
was  in  darkness  then. 

"  Archie,"  whispered  T(jd. 

No  answer.     No  sound. 

"  Are  you  asleep,  old  felhnv  ?  " 

Not  a  word  still.  The  dead  might  be  there,  for  all  the  sound 
there  was. 

"  He's  asleep,  for  certain,"  said  Tod,  groi>ingliis  way  towards 
the  bed.  "  So  much  the  better,  poor  little  chap.  I'll  not  wake 
Iiini." 

It  was  a  sniuU  room,  two  beds  in  it ;  Archie's  was  the  one 
at  the  end  by  the  wall.  Tod  gi-oped  his  way  to  it:  and,  in 
thinking  of  it  afterwaids,  I  wondered  that  Tod  did  go  up  to 
him.  The  most  natural  thing  wonhl  have  been  to  come  away, 
and  shut  the  door.  Unconscious  instinct  n)ust  have  guided 
him — as  it  guides  us  all.  Tod  bent  over  him,  touching  his  face, 
I  think.  I  stood  close  behind.  Now  that  our  eyes  were 
accustomed  to  the  darkness,  it  seemed  a  bit  lighter. 

Somethins:  like  a  shout  from  Tod  made  me  start.  It  was 
but  a  kind  of  suppressed  cry.  But  in  the  dark,  and  holding 
the  breath,  one  is  startled  easily. 

"  Get  a  light,  Johnny.  A  light! — quick!  for  the  love  of 
heaven," 

I  believe  I  leaped  the  stairs  at  a  bound.  I  believe  I  knocked 
over  Mother  Hall  at  the  foot.  I  know  I  snatched  the  candle 
that  was  in  her  haiul  :  and  she  screamed  after  me  as  if  1  had 
murdered  her. 

"  Here  it  is,  Tod." 

lie  w^as  at  the  door  waitinn-  for  it,  everv  atom  of  colour 
gone  clean  out  of  his  countenance.  Carrying  it  to  the  oed, 
he  let  its  liiditfall  full  on  Archie  llearn.  The  face  was  white 
aud  cold  ;  the  mouth  covered  with  froth. 

"  Oh  Tod  I     AVliat  is  it  that's  the  matter  with  him  ? " 


■WOLFE  barrtngton's  tamtxg.  51 

"  TTnsh,  Jolimiy  !  1  fear  he's  dying.  Good  Lord!  to  think 
we  should  have  been  such  ignorant  fools  as  to  leave  him  by 
himself  ! — as  not  to  have  sent  for  Featherstone  !" 

We  were  down  again  in  a  moment.  Hall  stood  scolding  still  at 
the  top  of  her  breath,  demanding  her  candle.  Tod  said  a  word 
that  stoj^ped  her.    She  backed  against  the  wall,  staring  at  him. 

"  J)on't  vou  plav  your  tricks  on  me,  Mr.  Todhetley." 

"(to  and  see,"  said  Tod. 

She  took  the  light  from  his  hand  quietly,  and  went  up.  Just 
then,  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Frost,  who  had  been  Avalking  all 
the  way  home  from  Sir  John  Whitney's,  where  they  had  spent 
the  evening,  came  in  ;  and  learnt  what  had  happened. 

Featherstone  was  there  in  no  time,  so  to  say,  and  shut  him- 
self in  the  bedroom  with  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Frost  and  Hall, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  more.  Kothing  could  be  done 
for  Archibald  Ilearn  :  he  was  not  quite  dead,  but  close  u])on 
it.  He  was  dead  before  anybody  th(jught  of  sending  to  Mrs. 
Hearn.  It  came  to  the  same.  Had  there  been  telegraph  wiies 
to  send  and  bring  her  upon,  she  would  have  come  too  lato. 

When  I  look  back  upon  that  evening — and  a  good  many 
years  have  gone  by  since,  as  if  it  had  been  in  the  beginning 
of  tlie  world — nothing  arises  in  my  mind  but  a  picture  of  con- 
fusion, tinged  with  a  feeling  of  dreadful  sorrow;  ay,  and  of 
hon'cn".  If  a  death  happens  in  a  school,  it  is  generally  kept 
from  the  p^ipils,  so  far  as  may  l)e  ;  at  any  i-ate  the}'  are  not 
allowed  to  see  any  of  the  attendant  stir  and  details.  But  this 
was  different.  Upon  mastei'S  and  boys,  upon  misti-ess  and 
household,  it  came  with  the  like  startling  shock.  Dr.  Frost 
said  feebly  that  the  boys  ought  to  go  up  to  bed,  and  then  Blair 
told  us  togo ;  but  the  bovs  staved  on  where  thev  weie.  Hantring 
about  the  passages,  stealing  up  stairs  and  peeping  into  the 
room,  questioning  Featherstone  (when  we  could  get  the  chance 
to  come  upon  him),  whether  Ilearn  would  get  well.  Nobody 
checked  us. 

I  went  in  oiuie.     Mrs,  Frost  was  alor.e,  kneeling  by  the  bed  ; 

I  thought  she  must  have  been  saying  a  praver.     Just  theo 
3* 


58  WOLFE  barrtngton's  taming 

Blie  lifted  her  head  to  lot)lv  at  liiin.    As  I  backed  awaj  again  she 
bei::aii  to  ;  peak  aloud — and  oh  !  what  a  sad  tone  she  said  it  in' 

"The  only  son  of  Ills  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow  !" 

There  had  to  he  an  inqnest.  It  did  not  come  to  much.  Tha 
most  that  could  be  said  was,  that  he  died  from  a  kick  at  foot- 
balL  "A  most  unfortunate  but  accidental  kick,"  qiiotli  the 
coroner.  Tod  had  said  that  he  saw  the  kick  given  :  that  is  had 
seen  some  foot  come  flat  down  with  a  bano;  on  the  side  of  little 
llearn's  head  ;  and  when  Tod  was  asked  if  he  recocrnized  the 
foot,  he  replioi  No;  foi-  boots  looked  muc-h  alike,  and  a  vast 
many  were  thrust  out  in  the  scrimmage,  all  kicking  fcogether. 

Not  one  would  own  to  having  given  it.  For  the  matter  of 
that,  the  fellow  might  not  have  been  conscious  of  what  he  did. 
No  end  of  thoughts  glanced  towards  Barrington  :  both  because 
he  was  so  ferocious  at  the  game,  and  that  he  had  a  spite 
against  Ilearn. 

"  I  never  touched  him,"  said  Barrington  when  this  leaked 
out ;  and  his  face  and  voice  were  fearlessly  defiant.  "  It 
wasn't  me.     I  never  so  much  as  saw  that  Ilearn  was  down." 

And  as  there  were  others  quite  as  brutal  at  football  as  Bar 
rington,  he  was  believed. 

We  could  not  get  over  it  any  way.  It  seemed  so  dreadful 
that  he  should  have  been  left  alone  to  die.  Ilall  was  chiefly 
to  blame  for  that ;  and  it  cowed  her. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Tod  to  us,  "  1  have  got  a  messnge  fcr 
one  of  you.  "Whichever  the  cap  fits  may  take  it  to  himself. 
When  Ilearn  was  dying  he  told  me  to  say  that  he  foi-gavo  the 
fellow  who  kicked  him." 

This  was  the  evening  of  the  inquest-day.  We  had  all 
gathered  in  the  j^orch  by  the  stone  bench,  and  Tod  took  the 
opi)ortunity  to  relate  what  he  had  not  related  before.  He  re- 
peated every  word  that  lleain  had  said. 

"  Did  Ilearn  know  who  it  was,  then  ? "  asked  John  Whitney. 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  ask  him  to  name !  " 

**  Why  didn't  I  ask  him  to  name,"  repeated  Tod,  in  a  fuma 


WOI.FE    BAEEIXGTOX'S    TAMTNG  "  59 

** Do  yon  suppose  I  thouglat  he  was  going  to  die,  Whitney? — • 
or  that  the  kick  was  to  tnrn  out  a  serious  one?  Ilcarn  was 
getting  big  enough  to  tiglit  his  own  battles  :  and  I  never  thought 
but  he  would  be  up  again  at  supper  time." 

John  Whitney  pushed  his  hair  back,  in  his  quiet,  thonght- 
ful  way,  and  said  no  more.    lie  was  to  die  himself  the  follow 
ing  year, — but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  present  matter 

1  was  standing  away  at  the  gate  after  this,  looking  at  the 
Bunset,  when  Tod  came  up  and  put  his  arms  on  the  top  bar. 

"  What  are  you  o-azino;  at,  Johnny  ? " 

"  At  the  sunset.  How  red  it  is!  I  was  thinking  that  if 
Hearn's  up  there  now  he  is  better  off.     It  is  very  beautiful." 

"  I  would  not  like  to  have  been  the  one  to  send  him  there, 
though,"  was  Tod's  answer.  "Johnny,  I  am  certain  Ilearn 
knew  who  it  was,"  he  went  on  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  am  certain 
he  thought  the  fellow,  himself  knew,  and  that  it  had  been 
done  for  the  purpose.     I  think  I  know  also." 

"  Tell  us,"  I  said.  And  Tod  glanced  over  his  shoulders,  to 
make  sure  nobody  was  within  hearing  before  he  replied. 

"Wolfe  Earrington." 

"  Why  don't  you  accuse  him.  Tod  ?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  do.  And  I  am  not  absolutely  sui-e.  What  I 
Baw,  was  this.  In  the  rush,  one  of  them  fell :  I  sa\^'  his  head 
lying  on  the  ground  sideways.  Befoi'e  I  could  shout  out  to 
the  fellows  to  take  care,  a  boot  with  a  o^rev  trouser  over  it 
came  stamping  down  (not  kicking)  on  the  side  of  the  head. 
If  ever  anything  was  done  delibejately,  that  stamp  seemed  to 
be  ;  it  could  hardly  have  been  accidental.  I  know  no  more 
than  that :  it  all  passed  in  a  moment  of  time.  I  didn't  see 
that  it  was  Earrington.  Eut — what  other  fellow  is  there 
among  us  who  would  have  wilfully  harmed  little  Ilearn  ?  It 
is  that  thought  that  brings  me  conviction." 

I  looked  round  to  where  a  lot  of  them  stood  at  a  distauca 
^'  A7olfe  has  got  on  grey  trousers,  too." 

"That  does  not  tell  much,"  returned  Tod.  "Half  of  us 
Wear  the  same.     Yours  are  grey ;  mine  are  grey.     It's  just 


^0  WOLFE   jBAHRIXOTON'S    TAMmO. 

this  :  Wliile  I  am  coTivinccd  in  my  own  mind  that  it  was 
ljarrin<2:t(in,  tlici-e's  no  soit  of  proof  that  it  was,  and  lie  denies 
it.     Ft)  it  iiiiist  rest,  and  die  away.     Keep  counsel,  Johnny." 

The  funeral  ti.ok  place  fVoin  the  scliool.  All  of  us  went  to 
it.  Tn  the  evenin*^^,  Mrs.  lleani,  who  had  been  stayiiif^  at  the 
liousc,  su)-p)ised  us  liy  coniini;-  into  the  tea-room.  She  looked 
very  small  in  her  black  gown.  Her  thin  cheeks  were  more 
flushed  than  usual,  and  her  eyes  had  a  mournful  sadness  in 
them. 

"I  wish  to  say  i^ood-l)ye  to  you  ;  and  to  shake  hands  with 
you  before  I  g-o  Inmie,"  she  began,  in  a  kind  tone,  and  we  all 
got  up  from  the  table  to  face  her. 

"I  thought  you  would  like  me  to  tell  you  that  T  feel  sure 
it  must  have  been  an  accident ;  tliat  no  harm  was  intended 
My  dear  little  son  said  this  to  Joseph  Todhetley  when  he  was 
dyiiig — and  I  fancy  that  some  prevision  of  death  nuist  have 
lain  then  upon  his  spirit  and  caused  him  to  say  it,  though  he 
himself  might  not  have  been  quite  conscious  of  it.  He  died 
in  love  and  peace  with  all ;  and,  if  he  had  anything  to  forgive 
—he  foigave  freely.  I  wish  to  let  you  know  that  I  do  the 
same.  Only  ti-y  to  be  a  little  less  i-ough  at  play— God  blesa 
you  all.     Will  you  shake  liands  with  me '( " 

John  Whitney,  a  true  gentleman  always,  went  up  to  her 
first,  meeting  her  offered  hand. 

"  If  i-t  had  been  anything  but  an  accident,  ]\rrs.  Ilearn,"  he 
began  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  "  if  any  one  of  us  had  done 
it  wilfully,  I  think,  standing  to  hear  you  now,  we  should 
shriid-c  to  tjie  earth  in  our  shame  and  contrition.  You  can- 
not regret  Arcliil)ald  much  more  than  we  do." 

"In  the  midst  of  my  grief,  1  know  one  thing:  that  G(;d  has 
taken  him  frt)ni  a  world  of  care  to  [)eace  and  happiness ;  1  tiy 
to  rest  in  that.     Thaidv  you  all.     Good-bye." 

Catching  iij)  her  breath,  she  shook  liands  with  us  one  bj 
one,  giving  each  a  smile;  but  did  not  say  more. 

And  the  only  one  of  us  who  did  not  feel  her  visit  as  it  wa^ 
meant,  was  Barrington.     But  he  had  no  feeling  :  his  body  wag 


WOT.FE  barrinqton's  tamixg.  61 

too  strong  for  it,  his  temper  too  tiei-ce.  He  would  have  tlirown 
a  sneer  of  ridicule  after  her,  but  Whitney  hissed  it  down. 

Before  another  day  had  gone  over,  Barrington  and  Tod  had 
a  row.  It  was  about  a  crib.  Tod  could  be  as  overbeaiing  as 
Barrington  when  he  pleased,  and  he  was  cherishing  a  bad 
feeling  towards  him.  They  went  and  had  it  out  in  private  — 
but  it  did  not  come  to  a  fight.  Tod  Avas  not  one  to  keep  in 
matters  till  tliey  rankled,  and  he  openly  told  Barrington  that 
he  believed  it  was  he  had  caused  Ilearn's  death.  Barrington 
denied  it  out-and-out ;  first  of  all  swearing  passionately  tliat  he 
had  not,  and  then  calming  down  to  talk  about  it  quietly.  Tod 
felt  less  sure  of  it  after  that :  as  he  confided  to  me  in  the  bed- 
room. 

Dr.  Frost  forbid  football.     And  the  time  went  on. 


"What  I  have  to  relate  further  may  be  thought  a  made-up 
story,  such  as  we  read  in  fiction.  It  is  so  very  like  a  case  of 
retrilMition.  But  it  is  all  true,  and  happened  as  I  shall  put  it. 
And  so(nehow  I  never  care  to  dwell  long  upon  the  calamity. 

It  was  as  neai-ly  as  possible  a  year  after  Ileai-n  died.  Jessup 
was  captain  of  the  school,  for  John  Whitney  was  too  ill  to 
come.  Jessup  was  nearly  as  j-ebellious  as  Wolfe;  and  the 
two  would  ridicule  Blair  audaciously,  and  call  him  "Baked 
pie  "  to  his  face.  One  morning,  when  they  had  given  no  end  of 
trouble  to  old  Frost  over  their  Greek,  and  laid  the  blame  upon 
the  hot  weather,  tlie  Doctor  said  he  had  a  great  mind  to  keep 
them  in  till  dinner-time.  However,  they  eat  humble-pie,  and 
were  allowed  to  escape.  Blair  was  taking  us  for  a  walk.  In- 
stead of  keeping  with  the  ranks,  Barrington  and  Jessup  fell 
out,  and  sat  down  on  the  gate  of  a  field,  where  the  wheat  was 
being  carried.  Blair  said  they  might  sit  there  if  they  pleased, 
but  forbid  them  to  cross  the  gate.  Indeed,  there  was  a  general 
and  standing  interdiction  against  our  entering  any  field  while 
the  crops  were  being  gathered.     We  \vent  on   and  left  them, 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  before  we  got  back,  Barriugtou 
bad  been  carried  home,  dying. 


62  .  WOLFE  barrington's  r amino. 

Dying,  as  was  supposed.  lie  and  Jei^snp  lirvJ  disobeyed 
Blair,  disregarded  orders,  and  rushed  into  the  titdd,  shout- 
ing and  leaping  like  two  nun!  fellows— as  tiie  labourers  said 
afterwards.  ]\Iaking  for  the  waggon,  laden  high  with  wheat, 
they  mounted  it,  and  started-on  the  horses.  In  some  way 
r>arrington  lost  his  balance,  slipped  over  the  side,  aiul  the 
hind  wheel  went  over  him. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  house  when  we  got  home.  Jessup, 
in  his  terror,  had  made  oil  for  his  home,  running  all  the  way — 
seven  miles,  lie  was  in  the  same  boat  as  Wolfe,  except  that 
he  escaped  injury — had  gone  over  the  stile  in  deliance  of  or- 
ders, and  got  on  the  waggon.  Barrington  was  lying  in  the  blue- 
room  ;  and  Mrs.  Frost,  frightened  out  of  bed,  stood  on  the 
landing  in  her  night-cap,  a  shawl  wrapped  round  her  loose  white 
dressing-gown.  She  was  ill  at  the  time.  Featherstone  canie 
striding  up  the  road  wiping  his  hot  face. 

"  Lord  bless  me  !  "  cried  Featherstone  when  he  had  looked  at 
Wolfe  and  touched  him.  "  I  can't  deal  with  this  bv  myself,  Dr. 
Frost." 

The  Doctor  had  guessed  that.  And  Roger  was  alreadv  away 
on  a  galloping  horse,  flying  to  fetch  another.  It  was  little  Piidi 
he  brought :  a  shilmp  of  a  man,  with  a  fair  re})utation  in  his 
profession.  But  the  two  were  more  accustomed  to  treat  rustio 
ailments  than  grave  cases,  and  Dr.  Frost  knew  that.  Evenin;^ 
drew  on,  and  the  dusk  was  gathering,  when  a  carriage  with  po.st 
horses  came  thundering  in  at  the  front  elates,  brimniiir  Mr. 
Card  en. 

They  did  not  explain  to  us  boys  the  particulars  of  the  in- 
juries ;  and  I  don't  know  them  to  this  day.  The  s])inc  was 
hurt  ;  the  ri<^ht  ankle  smashed:  we  heard  tliat  much.  Taotal, 
Barrington's  guardian,  came  over,  and  an  uncle  fi'om  London. 
Altogethei-  it  was  a  miserable  time.  The  masters  seized  upon  it 
to  be  doubly  stern,  and  i-ead  us  lectures  upon  disobedience  and 
rebellion— as  tho;igli  we  had  been  the  offenders  !  As  to  Jessup, 
his  father  handed  him  back  again  to  Dr.  Fj-ost,  saying  that  ia 
his  opinion  a  taste  of  birch  wculd  much  conduce  to  his  benefit. 


•WOLFE    BAKKI^'^GTON's    TAJnXG.  63 

Barrinc^toii  did  not  seem  to  suffer  as  keenly  as  some  might ; 
pei'liaps  his  spirits  kept  him  up,  for  they  were  untamed.  Ou 
the  very  day  after  the  accident,  he  asked  for  some  of  the  fellows 
to  go  in  and  sit  with  him,  hecause  he  was  dull.  By-and-by, 
the  doctoi's  said.  And  the  next  day  but  one,  Dr.  Frost  sent  in 
nie.     Me !     The  paid  nurse  sat  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Ludlow  ?     Where's  Jessup  ?  " 

"  Jessup's  under  punishment." 

His  face  looked  the  same  as  ever,  and  that  was  all  of  liim 
that  could  l)e  seen.  lie  lay  on  his  hack,  covered  over.  As  to 
the  low  bed,  it  might  have  been  a  board,  to  judge  by  the  flat- 
ness.    And  perhaps  ^yas. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  about  it,  Barringtou.  We  all  are.  Are 
you  in  much  pain  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  was  his  impatient  answer.  "  One  has 
to  grin  and  bear  it.  Tlie  cursed  idiots  had  stacked  the  wheat 
eloping  to  the  sides,  or  it  would  never  have  happened.  What 
do  you  hear  about  me  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  regi-et  that  it " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  stuff.  Reo-ret,  indeed  !  regret  won't 
undo  it.  I  mean  as  to  my  getting  about  again.  Will  it  be 
ao-es  Urst  ? " 

"  We  don't  hear  a  word." 

"  If  they  were  to  keep  me  here  a  month,  Lndlow,  1  should 
go  mad.     Rampant.     You  slnit  up,  old  woman." 

Fov  the  nurse  had  interfered,  tellino;  him  he  must  not  excite 
himself. 

"My  ankle's  hurt;  but  I  believe  it  is  not  half  so  bad  as  a 
regular  fracture :  and  my  back's  bruised.  Well,  what's  a  bruise  'i 
Nothing.  Of  course  there's  pain  and  stiffness,  and  all  that ; 
but  so  there  is  after  a  bad  light,  or  a  thi-ashing.  And  they 
talk  about  my  lying  here  for  three  or  four  weeks  !     Catch  i»e." 

One  thing  was  evident :  that  they  had  not  allowed  Wolfe  to 
Buspect  the  gravity  of  the  case.  Down  stairs  we  had  an  inkling, 
I  don't  remember  wlience  gathered,  that  it  inight  possibly  end 
iu  death.    There  was  a  suspicion  of  some  injury  that  we  could 


^4  WOLFE    BARRfNGTON's   TAMTNO. 

not  get  to  know  of;  inward  I  think;  and  it  is  said  that  even 
Mr.  Carden.  with  all  his  surgical  skill,  couhl  not  get  to  it  either. 
A.ny  way,  the  prospect  of  recovery  for  Barringtou  was  supposed 
to  be  of  the  S(;autiest ;  and  ir  put  a  gloom  upon  us. 

A  sad  uiisiiap  was  to  occur.  Of  course  nobody  in  their 
senses  would  have  let  I'an-inirton  learn  the  danjrer  he  was  in  ; 
especially  while  there  was  just  a  chance  that  the  peril  would 
be  surmounted.  I  I'ead  a  l)ook  lately — I,  Johnny  Ludlow — 
where  a  little  child  met  with  an  accident ;  and  the  fii-st  thins 
the  peo[)le  around  him  did,  father,  doctors,  nurses,  was  to 
infoi-m  hiin  that  he  would  he  a  cripple  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
That  was  common  sense  with  a  vengeance  :  and  about  as  likely 
to  occur  in  real  life  as  that  I  could  turn  myself  into  a  Dutch 
man.  However,  something  of  the  kind  did  haj^pen  in  J3arring- 
tttu's  case,  but  through  inadvertence.  Another  uncle  came 
over  from  Ireland  ;  an  old  man  ;  and  in  talkinir  with  Feather- 
stone  spoke  out  loo  freely.  They  were  outside  Barrington'a 
door,  and  he-i  les  that,  supposed  he  was  asleep.  But  he  had 
woke  then  ;  and  heard  more  than  he  ought.  That  blue-room 
always  seemed  to  have  an  echo  in  it. 

"  !So  it's  all  up  with  me,  Ludlow?" 

I  was  by  his  bedside  when  he  suddenly  said  this,  in  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  summer's  evening.  lie  had  been  lying 
quite  silent  since  I  entered,  and  his  face  had  a  white,  still  look 
on  it,  never  before  noticed  there. 

"■  What  do  you  mean,  Harrington  ?  " 

"None  of  your  sliamming  here.  I  know;  and  so  do  yo«, 
Jolinny  Ludlow.  I  say,  though,  it  makes  one  feel  queer  to  lind 
the  world's  slipping  away.  I  had  looked  for  so  much  jolly 
life  in  it." 

"  Barrington,  you  may  get  well  yet ;  you  may,  indeed.  Ask 
P'nk  and  Featherstone,  else,  when  they  next  come;  ask  Mr 
Garden.  I  can't  think  what  idea  you  have  been  getting  hold 
of." 

"  There,  that's  enough,"  ho  answered.  "  Don't  bother.  J 
want  to  be  quiet." 


■WOLFE   BARRIN'GTO:^^'s   TAMING.  65 

He  sbnt  his  eyes  ;  and  the  dusk  grew  greater  as  the  minutes 
passed.  Presently  some  one  came  into  the  room  with  a  gentle 
step  :  a  lady  in  a  black-and-white  gown  that  didn't  rustle.  It 
was  Mrs.  Ilearn.     Barriiigton  looked  up  at  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  with  you  for  a  day  or  two,"  she  said  in 
a  low  sweet  voice,  bending  over  him  and  touching  his  forehead 
with  her  cool  fino-ers.  "  I  hear  you  have  taken  a  dislike  to  the 
nurse :  and  Mrs.  Frost  is  really  too  weakly  j  ust  now  to  get  about." 

''She's  a  sly  cat,"  said  Barrington,  alluding  to  the  nurse; 
"  she  watches  me  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye.  Hall's  as  bad. 
They  are  in  lea<>:ue  together." 

"  Well,  they  shall  not  come  in  more  than  I  can  help.  I 
will  nurse  you  my  myself." 

"No;  not  you,"  said  Barrington,  his  face  looking  red  and 
uneasy.     "  I'll  not  trouble  you.''^ 

She  sat  down  in  my  cliaii-,  just  pressing  my  hand  in  token 
of  greeting.     And  I  left  them. 

In  the  eusuing  days  his  life  trembled  in  the  balance,  and 
even  when  part  of  the  more  immediate  danger  was  surmounted, 
part  of  the  worst  of  the  pain,  it  was  still  a  toss-up.  Barring- 
ton had  no  hope  whatever  :  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Ilearn  had,  either. 

She  hardly  left  him.     At  iirs!  he  seemed  to  i-esent  her  pres 
ence ;  to  Avish  her  away ;  t(;  receive  what  she  did  for  him  un- 
willingly :   but,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  grew  to  look  round  for 
her,  and  to  let  his  hand  lie  in  hers  whenever  she  chose  to  take 
it. 

Who  can  tell  what  she  said  to  him  ?  "Who  can  know  how 
she  softly  and  gradually  awoke  the  good  feelings  within  him, 
and  won  his  he.irt  from  its  brazen  har.lness  ?  She  did  do  it, 
and  that's  enough.  The  way  was  paved  for  her.  "What  the 
accident  had  not  done,  the  fear  of  death  had.     Tamed  him. 

One  evening  when  the  sun  had  sunk,  leaving  only  its  light 
fading  in  the  western  sky,  and  Barrington  had  been  watching 
it  from  his  bed,  he  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  Mrs.  Ilearu. 
busy  amidst  the  physic  bottles,  was  by  his  side  in  a  moment. 

«  Wolfe  1" 


GO  WOLFK    UARRINQTON's    TAMING 

'*  It's  very  hard  to  have  to  die."' 

"  Tlush,  my  clear,  you  are  not  worse  :  a  little  better.  I  thiulj 
you  may  be  spared;  I  do  indeed.  And — in  any  case — you 
know  what  I  read  to  yon  this  evenini;:  that  to  die  is  o-jiiii." 

"  es,  for  some.  I've  never  had  my  thoughts  turned  that 
way." 

"  Thev  are  turned  now.     That  is  quite  enou<>-h." 

"  It  is  such  a  little  while  to  hav^e  lived,"  went  on  Barrington, 
after  a  pause.  "Such  a  little  while  to  have  enjoyed  earth. 
AVhat  are  my  few  years  compared  to  the  ages  that  have  gone 
by,  to  the  ages  and  ages  that  are  to  come  ?  i^othing.  Not  as 
much  as  a  single  drop  of  water  to  the  wide  ocean." 

"  Wolfe,  dear,  if  you  live  out  the  allotted  years  of  man,  three 
score  and  ten,  what  would  even  tiiat  be  in  comparison  ?  As  you 
eav — nothiiii>-.  It  seems  to  me  that  our  well-beini'-  or  ill-beinir 
here  need  not  much  concern  us  ;  the  days,  whether  short  or 
long,  will  pass  as  a  dream.  Eternal  life  lasts  for  ever  ;  soon  we 
must  all  be  departing  for  it." 

Wolfe  made  no  answer.  The  clear  sky  was  assuming  its 
pale  tints,  blue,  green,  orange,  shading  oft"  one  into  another,  a 
beautiful  opal,  and  his  eyes  were  looking  out  at  it.  But  as  if 
he  saw  nothing. 

"  Listen,  my  dear.  When  Archibald  died,  /thought  I  should 
have  died  ;  died  of  grief  and  aching  pain.  I  grieved  to  think 
how  short  had  been  his  span  of  life  cm  this  fair  earth;  how 
cruel  his  fate  in  being  taken  fi-om  it  so  early.  I]nt,  oh,  Wolfe, 
God  has  shown  me  my  mistake.  I  would  not  have  him  back 
if  I  could." 

AVolfe  put  up  his  hand  to  cover  his  face.  Not  a  w<jrd  spoke 
he. 

"I  wish  you  could  sec  things  as  I  see  them,  now  that  they 
ha\  e  been  cleared  for  me,"  she  resumed.  "  It  is  so  much  bet- 
ter to  be  in  heaven  than  on  earth.  We,  who  are  here,  have  to 
battle  with  many  cares  and  crosses  ;  and  shall  have  to  the  end, 
Archie  has  thrown  all  care  off.  lie  is  in  happinees  amidst  the 
redeemed." 


WOLFE    BAKKINGTOn's    TAMING.  67 

The  room  was  getting  darker  ;  the  sky's  opal  tints  uame  out 
brighter.     Wolfe's  face  was  one  of  intense  pain. 

"  Wolfe,  dear,  do  not  mistake  me;  do  not  thiidc  me  hard  if 
I  say  that  yon  wuuld  be  happier  there  than  here.  There  is 
nothing  to  dread,  dying  in  Christ.  Believe  me,  I  wonld  n(jt 
for  the  worhl  have  Archie  back  aijain  :  how  could  I  then  make 
Bure  what  the  eventual  ending  would  be?  You  and  he  will 
know  each  other  up  there." 

"Don't,"  said  Wolfe. 

"  Don't  what  ?  " 

Wolfe  pulled  her  hand  close  to  his  face,  and  she  knelt  down 
to  catch  his  whisper. 

"  I  killed  him." 

A  pause  :  and  a  kind  of  sob  in  her  throat.  Then,  drawing 
away  her  hand,  she  laid  her  cheek  to  his. 

"My  dear,  1  think  I  have  known  it." 

"  You — have — known — it  1 "  stannnered  disbelieving  Wolfe. 

"Yes.  I  thought  it  was  likely.  1  felt  nearly  sure.  Don't 
let  it  trouble  you  now.  Archie  forgave,  you  know,  and  I  for- 
gave ;  and  God  will  foi'give." 

"  How  could  you  come  hereto  nurse  me — knowing  that?" 

"  It  made  me  the  more  anxious  to  come.  You  have  no 
nu^ther." 

"  No."  Wolfe  was  sobbing  bitterly.  "  She  died  when  I 
was  born.  I've  never  had  am  body.  I've  never  had  a  chapter 
read  to  me,  or  a  prayer  ])rayed." 

"No,  no,  dear.  And  Archie — oh,  Archie  had  all  that. 
From  the  time  he  could  speak,  I  tried  toti-ain  liim  for  heaven. 
It  has  seeined  to  me,  since,  just  as  though  I  had  foreseen  he 
would  go  early,  and  was  preparing  liim  for  it." 

"I  never  meant  to  kill  him,"  sobbed  Wolfe.  "1  saw  hia 
head  down  there,  and  I  sent  my  foot  upon  it  withcnit  a  moment's 
thouglit.  If  I  had  taken  thought,  or  known  it  would  hurt  liiiu 
seriously,  I'd  not  have  done  it." 

"  He  is  better  off,  dear,"  was  all  she  said.  "  Y  ou  have  that 
comfort." 


nS  WOLFE   BARRIN^GTON's   TAMING. 

"  Any  war,  1  am  })aid  out  for  it.  At  tlie  best,  I  sn[)pose  1 
bIuiII  go  u|)on  enitclics  for  life.  Tliat's  bad  enough :  but  dying's 
woi-se.     Mrs.  Ileai'n,  I  am  not  ready  to  die." 

"Be  vou  very  sure  God  will  net  take  vou  until  vou  are  readv, 
if  you  only  wish  and  hope  to  be  made  so  from  your  vei-y  heart." 
she  whispered.     "  I  am  praying  to  llim  often  foi-  you,  Wolfe." 

'*  1  thiidv  vou  must  be  one  of  heaven's  ano-els,"  said  Wolfe, 
with  a  burst  of  emotion. 

'■  No,  dear ;  only  a  weak  woman.  I  hav'e  had  so  mueh  sorrow 
antl  care,  trial  upon  trial,  one  disappt)intment  after  another, 
that  it  has  left  me  iKjthing  but  heaven  to  lean  upon.  Wolfe, 
1  am  trying  to  show  you  a  little  bit  of  the  way  thither;  and  I 
tliiid< — I  do  indeed — that  this  ai-cident,  which  seems,  and  is,  so 
dreadful,  may  have  been  sent  by  God  in  mercy.  Perhaps,  else, 
you  might  never  have  found  llim  :  and  where  would  you  liave 
been  in  all  that  long,  long  eternity  that  has  to  come?  A  few 
years  here:  millions  of  never-ending  ages  hereafter! — oh, 
Wolfe!  bear  up  bravelj'  for  the  little  span,  even  though  the 
ci'oss  may  be  heavy.     Fight  on  manfully  for  the  real  life." 

'  If  you  will  help  me." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will." 


Wolfe  got  about  again,  and  came  out  upon  crutches.  After 
awhile  they  were  discarded,  hi'st  one,  then  the  other,  and  he 
took  to  a  stick  permanently.  lie  would  never  go  without  that, 
lie  wouM  never  run  oi-  leap  again,  or  kick  nuich  either.  The 
doctors  looked  njioii  it  as  a  wonderfid  cure— and  old  Feather- 
Btone  was  apt  to  talk  to  us  boys  as  if  it  were  he  who  had  pulled 
llim  through.     But  not  in  Henry  Garden's  hearing. 

The  uncles  and  Ta])tal  saiil  he  would  be  better  now  at  a 
j»riv;ite  tutoi-'s.  But  Wolfe  would  not  leaver  Dr.  Fi'ost's.  A  low 
pony  (;an-iage  was  bought  lov  him,  and  all  his  sj'are  tiuie  he 
would  irodri\ini;  over  to  Mrs.  llearn's.  He  was  as  a  son  to 
her.  liis  great  animal  spirits  Lad  been  taken  out  of  him,  you 
see  ;  and  he  had  to  tiud  his  happiness  in  c^uieter  grooves.     One 


WOLFE  barrixgton's  tamino.  69 

Saturday  afternoon  he  drove  nie  over.  Mrs.  Hearn  had  asked 
me  to  stay  with  her  until  the  Monday  morning.  Barrington 
generally  staved. 

It  was  in  NovemLcr.  Considerably  more  than  a  year  after 
the  accident.  The  guns  of  the  sportsmen  were  heard  in  the 
■PT  od ;  a  pack  of  hounds  and  their  huntsmen  rode  past  the 
cottage  at  a  gallop,  in  full  chase  after  a  late  liud.  Barriugtou 
looked  and  listened,  a  sigh  escaping  him. 

"  These  pleasures  are  barred  to  me  now." 

"  But  a  l)etter  one  has  been  opened  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hearn, 
with  a  meaning  smile,  as  she  took  his  hand  to  hold. 

And  on  Wolfe's  face,  when  he  glanced  at  her  in  answer,  there 
Bat  a  look  of  satisfied  rest,  that  I  am  sure  had  never  been  seen 
on  it  before  he  fell  off  the  wagou. 


IV. 


MAJOE   PARRIFER 

f^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  *^^  worst  mai2:i strafes  tliat  ever  sat  upon 

the    beiicli    of    iustices.     Straiio-ers    were    p-iveii  tc 

wonder  how  he  «j:;ot  liis  com  mission.     But,  von  see, 

men  are  fit  or  unfit  for  a    ]x»st  aceoixlinp;    to  their 

doings  in  it ;  and,  genei-ally  speaking,  people  cannot  tell  what 

the  doings  will  be  beforehand. 

They  called  him  Major:  Major  Parrifer :  but  he  only  held 
rank  in  a  militia  regiment,  and  everybody  knows  what  that  is- 
lie  had  bought  the  place  he  lived  in  some  years  bcfoi-e,  and 
christened  it  Parrifer  Hall.  The  worst  title  he  could  have 
hit  upon  ;  seeing  that  the  good  old  Hall,  with  the  good  old 
family  in  it,  was  only  a  mile  or  two  distant.  J*arrifer  Hall 
was  only  a  stone's  throw,  so  to  sav,  bevond  our  \  illa<>-e,  Church 
Dykely. 

Thoy  lived  at  a  high  rate;  money  was  not  lacking;  the 
Major,  his  wife,  six  daughters,  and  a  son  who  did  not  come 
home  much.  ]\Irs.  Parrifer  was  stuck  up:  it  is  one  of  onr 
country  sayings,  and  it  applied  to  her  well.  AVhen  she  called 
on  people  her  silk  gowns  iMistled  as  if  buckram  lined  them  ; 
her  voice  was  loud,  her  maiinei-  jnitronising  ;  the  jMajor's  voice 
and  manner  were  the  same  ;  and  the  girls  took  after  them. 

Close  by,  at  the  corner  of  Piefinch  Lane,  was  a  cottage  that 
belonged  to  me.  To  me,  Johmiy  J.udlow.  Not  that  I  had  (!on- 
trol  yet  awhile  over  that,  or  any  other  cottage  I  mio-ht  i)OPses3 
George  Reed  rented  the  cottage.  It  stood  in  a  good  lai-ge 
garden  which  touched  Major  Parrifer's  side  fence.     On  the 


MAJOR   PARRIFEB.  71 

otlier  side  the  garden,  a  higli  hedge  divided  it  fi-om  the  iaiie  ; 
l)ut  it  had  oidy  a  low  hedge  in  trout,  with  a  low  gate  iu 
the  middle.  Well-kept  trim  edges :  George  Reed  took  care 
of  that. 

Tliei'e  was  quite  a  history  attaching  to  him.  His  father  had 
been  indoor  servant  at  the  Comt ;  when  he  married  and  left  it^ 
my  gi'andfather  gave  him  a  lease  of  this  uottage,  renewable 
every  seven  years.  George  was  the  only  son,  had  been  very 
decently  educated,  hut  turned  out  wild  when  he  grew  up  and 
got  out  of  everything;  the  I'esidt  was, that  he  was  only  a  day- 
labourer,  and  never  likely  to  be  anything  else.  He  took  to  the 
cottaire  after  old  Iveed's  death,  and  worked  for  Mr.  Sterling; ; 
wlu)  had  the  Court  now.  (xeorcre  Reed  was  civil  in  ordinary, 
but  uncommonly  independent.  His  iii'st  wife  had  died,  leav- 
ing a  daughter,  Cathy;  later  he  married  again.  Iveed's  wild 
oats  had  been  sown  years  ao-o ;  he  was  thorons-hlv  well-con- 
ducted  and  industrious  now,  working  in  his  own  garden  early 
and  late. 

When  Cathy's  mother  died,  she  was  taken  to  by  an  aunt, 
M'ho  lived  near  Worcester.  At  fifteen  she  came  home  again, 
for  the  aunt  had  died.  Her  ten  years'  training  there  had  done 
very  little  for  her,  except  make  her  into  a  pretty  gii'l.  Cathy 
had  been  trained  to  idleness,  but  to  very  little  else.  She  could 
sino- ;  selftau<;ht  of  course  ;  she  could  embroider  haiulkerchiefs 
and  frills  and  petticoat-tails;  she  could  write  a  tolerable  letter 
•without  many  mistakes,  and  was  gi-eat  at  reading,  especially' 
Avhcn  the  literature  was  of  the  half-penny  kind  issued  weekly. 
The  acquirements  (except  the  last)  were  not  bad  things  in 
theu'selves,  but  entiiely  unsuited  to  Cathy  Read's  condition 
and  her  future  prospects  in  life.  The  best  that  she  could  as- 
pire to  be,  the  best  her  father  expected  for  her,  was  that  of 
entering  on  a  light  respectable  service,  and  later  to  become, 
perhaps,  a  labouj'er's  wife. 

The  second  Mrs.  Heed,  a  quiet  kind  of  young  woman.,  had 
one  little  girl  only  when  Cathy  came  home.  IShe  was  nearly 
Struck  dumb  when  she  found  what  had  been  Cathy's  acquii-e- 


73  MAJOR   PARRITER. 

meiits  in  the  wav  of  usefulness  ;  or  rather  wliat  were  her  non- 
acquirenionrs:  the  facts  unfolding  themselves  l>y  deg-rees. 

"  Your  futiier  thinks  he'd  like  you  to  get  a  service  with  some 
of  the  gentlefolks,  Cathy,"  her  stepmother  said  to  her.  "  Per- 
haps at  the  Court,  if  they  could  make  room  lor  you  ;  or  over 
a*  S<)nire  Todhetley's.  Meanwhile  you'll  hel})  me  with  the 
»s«^ik  at  home  for  a  few  weeks  first ;  won't  you,  dear?  When 
ifcnother  little  one  comes,  there'll  be  ag(jod  deal  on  my  hands." 
"  Oh,  I'll  help,"  answered  Cathy,  who  was  a  good-natured, 
ready-P})eaking  girl. 

''  That's  i-ight.     Can  you  wash  1 " 

"No,"  said  Cathy,  wiih  a  very  decisive  shake  of  the  head. 
"Not  wash?" 
"  Oh  dear,  no." 
"  Can  you  iron  ?" 
"  Pocket-handkerchiefs." 

"  Your  aunt  was  a  seamstress:  can  you  sew  well  ?" 
"  I  don't  like  sewing." 

Mrs.  Heed  looked  at  her,  but  said  no  more  then,  rather 
leaving  it  to  practice  instead  of  theory  to  develop  Cathy's  ca- 
pabilities. Put  when  she  came  to  put  her  to  the  test,  she  found 
Cathy  could  not,  or  would  not,  do  any  kind  of  useful  work 
whatever.  Cathv  could  not  wat^h,  or  iron,  or  scour,  or  cook, 
or  sweep  ;  or  even  sew  coarse  plain  things,  such  as  are  required 
in  labourers'  families.  Cathy  could  do  several  kinds  of  fancy 
work.  Cathy  could  idle  away  her  time  at  the  glass,  oiling 
her  hair,  and  dressing  herself  to  the  best  advantage;  Cathy 
had  a  snuittei-ing  of  history  and  geography  and  chronology  ; 
and  of  polite  literature,  as  (tomprised  in  the  pages  of  the  afore- 
said half-penny  and  penny  weekly  ronumces.  The  aunt  had  sent 
Cathy  to  a  cheap  day-school  where  such  learning  was  supposed 
to  be  taught:  had  let  her  nn  about  when  she  ought  to  have 
been  cooking  and  washing;  and  (jf  course  Cathy  had  ac(piired 
a  distaste  for  work.  ]\lrs.  Peed  sat  down  aghast,  her  hands 
falling  helpless  on  her  lap,  and  a  kind  of  fear  at  what  might 
be  Cathy's  future  stealing  into  her  heait. 


MAJOR    PAKRIFER.  73 

"  Child,  what  is  to  become  of  von  ?" 

Catliy  had  no  quabus  upon  the  point  herself.  She  gave  a 
langhing  kiss  to  tlie  little  child,  toddling  round  the  room  by 
the  chairs,  and  took  out  of  her  pocket  one  of  those  halfpeimy 
serials,  whose  enthrilling  stories  of  brigands  and  captive  damsels 
she  had  learnt  to  take  iier  chief  delight  in. 

"  1  shall  have  to  teach  her  everything,"  sighed  disappointed 
Mrs.  Eeed,  "  Catherine,  I  don't  think  the  kind  of  useless 
things  your  aunt  has  let  you  learn  are  good  for  poor  folks  like 
us." 

(xood !  Mrs.  lieed  might  have  gone  a  little  farther.  She 
began  her  instruction,  bnt  Cathy  would  not  learn.  Cathy  was 
good-humoured  always  ;  but  of  work  she  would  do  lione.  If 
she  attempted  it,  Mrs.  Tieed  had  to  do  it  over  again. 

"  Where  on  earth  will  the  gentlefolks  get  theij"  servants  from, 
if  the  girls  are  to  be  like  you  ? "  cried  honest  Mrs.  Reed. 

Well,  time  went  on  :  a  vear  or  two.  Catliv  Hoed  tried  two 
or  three  services,  bnt  did  not  keep  them.  Young  Mrs.  Ster- 
ling at  tlie  Court  at  length  to(.k  her.  In  tlu'ce  months  Cathy 
was  back  home  as  r.snul.  "I  do  not  tliink  Catherine  will  be 
kept  anywhere,"  M]-s.  Sterling  said  to  her  stepmother.  "  Wlieii 
she  onirlit  to  have  been  mindinp-  the  babv,  the  nurse  would 
find  her  witli  a  strip  of  embroidery  in  her  hand,  or  else  buried 
in  the  pages  of  some  bad  story  that  can  only  do  her  harnn." 

Cathy  was  turned  seventeen  when  the  M^arfare  set  in  between 
her  father  and  Major  Parrifei'.  The  Major  suddenly  cast  his 
eyes  on  the  little  cottage  outside  his  own  land  and  coveted  it. 
Before  this,  young  Parrifer  (a  harmless  young  man  v\-ith  no 
whiskers,  and  sandy  hair  parted  dov/n  the  middle)  had  struck 
np  an  acquaintance  with  Ca,thy.  Yv  hen  he  left  Oxford  (where 
he  <;x)t  i)lucked  twice,  and  at  leno'th  took  his  name  oft"  the 
books)  he  would  often  be  seen  leaning  over  the  cottage-gate, 
talking  to  Cathv  in  the  ijarden,  with  her  two  little  half-sistera 
that  she  pretended  to  mind.  There  was  no  harm  :  but  per- 
haps Major  Parrifer  feared  it  might  grow  into  it;  and  he 
badly  wanted  the  plot  of  ground  to  be  his,  that  he  might  i)ull 


74  MAJOR   PAKRIFER. 

the  cottacje  down  and  extend  his  own  boundaries  to  Piofij^^h 
Lane. 

One  fine  dav  in  the  liolidavs,  when  Tod  and  I  were  indoors 
making  Hies  for  fishing,  our  okl  servant,  Thomas,  appeared,  and 
said  tluit  George  Reed  had  come  over  and  wanted  to  speak  to 
me.    AVhich  set  us  wonderino;.    Wliat  could  he  want  with  nie  ? 

"Show  him  in  here," said  Tod. 

Keed  came  in  :  a  tall  and  powerful  man  of  forty  ;  with  dark 
curling  liair,  and  a  determined,  good-looking  face.  lie  began 
saying  that  he  had  heard  Major  Farrifer  was  after  his  cottage, 
wanting  to  buy  it ;  so  he  had  come  over  to  beg  me  to  interfere 
and  stop  the  sale. 

'•  AVhy,  Reed,  what  can  I  do  ? "  I  asked.  "  Yon  know  I  have 
no  povcei'." 

"  You'd  not  turn  me  out  of  it  yourself,  I  know,  sir." 

"  That  I'd  not." 

Neither  would  I.  I  liked  Georo:e  Eeed.  And  I  remembered 
that  he  used  to  have  me  in  his  arms  sometimes  when  I  was  a 
little  fellow  at  the  Court,  Once  he  carried  me  to  my  mother's 
grave  in  the  churchyajd,  and  told  me  she  had  gone  to  live  in 
heaven. 

"  Vriien  a  rich  gentleman  sets  his  mind  on  a  poor  man's  bit 
of  a  cottage,  and  says, '  That  shall  be  mine,'  the  poor  man  has 
not  i>;ot  much  chance  amiinst  him,  sir,  unless  he  that  owns  the 
cottage  will  be  his  friend.  I  know  you  have  got  no  power  at 
present.  Master  Johnny  ;  but  if  you'd  sjjeak  to  Mr.  Brandon, 
j)erliaps  he  would  listen  to  you." 

"  Sit  down.  Heed,"  interrupted  Tod,  putting  his  catgut  out 
of  Jiis  hand.     "  I  thougbt  you  had  the  cottage  on  a  lease." 

"And  so  I  have,  sir.  But  the  lease  will  be  out  at  Michaelmas 
next,  and  Mr,  Brandon  can  turn  me  from  it  if  he  likes.  My 
fatber  and  mother  died  there,  sir;  my  wife  died  there;  my 
chiklren  were  born  tli§i;fi,;  and  the  place  is  as  much  like  my 
houiestead  as  if  it  was  my  own." 

"  How  do  von  know  old  Parrifer  wants  it?"  continued  Tod. 

"I  have  heard  it  from  a  sure  soui-ce.     I've  heard,  too,  that 


MAJOR    PARRIFER.  75 

his  lawyer  and  JMr.  Brandon's  lawyer  liaye  settled  :lie  matter 
between  their  two  selves,  and  don't  intend  to  let  me  as  much  as 
know  I'm  to  go  out  till  the  time  has  come,  for  fear  I  should 
make  a  row  oyer  it,  Kobody  upon  earth  can  stop  it  except 
Mr.  Brandon,"  added  Reed  with  enero-y. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Mr.  Brandc.m,  Reed  ?" 

"Xo,  sir.  I  was  going  up  to  him  ;  but  the  thought  took  me 
that  I'd  better  come  off  at  once  to  Master  Ludlow  ;  his  word 
mi^'ht  be  of  more  avail  than  mine.  There's  no  time  to  be  lost. 
If  once  the  lawyers  get  Mr.  Brandon's  consent,  he  may  not  be 
able  to  recall  it." 

"  What  does  Parrifer  want  with  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  I  fanc}^  he  covets  the  bit  of  garden,  sir  ;  he  sees  the  good 
order  I've  brought  it  into.  If  it's  not  that,  I  don't  know  what 
it  can  be.  The  cottage  can  be  no  eyesore  to  him  ;  he  can't  see 
it  from  his  windows." 

"Shall  I  go  with  yon,  Johnny?"  said  Tod,  as  Reed  went 
home,  after  drinking  the  ale  old  Thomas  gave  him.  "  We  will 
circumvent  that  Parrifer,  if  there's  law  or  justice  in  the  Bran- 
don land." 

We  went  off  to  Mr.  Brandon's  in  the  pony-carriage,  Tod  driv- 
ing. He  lived  near  Alcester,  and  had  the  management  of  my 
property  while  I  was  a  minor.  As  we  w^ent  along  Avho  should 
ride  past,  meeting  us,  but  Major  Parrifer. 

"Looking  like  the  bull-dog  that  he  is,"  cried  Tod,  who  could 
not  bear  the  man.  "  Johnny,  what  will  you  lay  that  he  has 
not  been  to  Mr.  Brandon's?  The  negotiations  are  becoming 
intricate." 

Tod  did  not  go  in.  On  second  thought,  he  said  it  might 
be  better  to  leave  it  to  me.  The  Squire  must  try,  if  I  failed. 
Mr.  B)-andon  was  at  home ;  and  Tod  drove  on  into  Alcester  by 
way  of  passing  the  time. 

"  I3ut  I  don't  tlunk  you  can  see  him,"  said  the  housekeeper 
when  she  came  to  me  in  the  drawing-room.  "  This  is  one  of 
his  bad  davs.     A  <rentleman  called  iust  now.  and  I  went  in  to 

*>  CD  J  ' 

the  master,  bu.  it  was  of  no  use." 


76  MAJOR   PARKIFEK. 

"  1  know  ;  it  was  Major  Parrifer.  We  thought  lie  might 
have  been  calling  here." 

Mr.  J^ruiidon  was  little  and  thin,  with  a  shrivelled  face,  lie 
lived  alone,  except  for  three  or  four  seivanls,  and  always 
fancied  himself  ill  with  one  ailment  or  another.  When  I  went 
in,  for  he  said  he'd  see  me,  he  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair,  with 
a  geranium-coloured  Turkish  cap  on  his  head,  and  two  bottles 
of  medicine  at  his  elbow. 

"  Well,  Johnny,  an  invalid  as  usual,  yon  see.  And  what  is 
it  you  so  particularly  want  ?" 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favour,  Mr.  Brandon,  if  you'll  pleaso 
to  grant  it  me." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  know  that  cottage,  sir,  at  tlie  corner  of  Pieflnch  Lane. 
George  Reed's." 

"\VeH?" 

"  I  am  come  to  ask  you  to  please  not  to  let  it  be  sold." 

"  Who  wants  to  sell  it  ?  "  asked  he,  after  a  pause. 

"Major  Parrifer  wants  to  buy  it;  and  to  turn  out  Reed. 
The  law  vers  are  ffoino-  to  arrano;e  it." 

Mr.  !Bj-andon  pushed  the  Turkish  cap  up  on  his  brow  and 
£^ave  the  purple  tassel  over  his  ear  a  twirl  as  he  looked  at  me. 
People  thought  him  incapable ;  but  it  was  only  because  he 
had  no  work  to  do  that  he  seemed  so.  He  would  o-et  a  bit 
in  itable  sometimes ;  very  rarely  though ;  and  he  had  a  squeaky 
voice :  but  he  was  a  good  and  just  man. 

"  ITow  did  you  hear  this,  Johimy  ?  " 

I  told  him  all  about  it.  What  Reed  had  said,  and  of  our 
having  met  the  i\Iajor  on  horseback  as  we  drove  along. 

"  lie  came  here,  but  I  did  not  feel  well  enough  to  see  him," 
Baid  Mr.  Brandon.  "Johnny,  you  know  that  I  stand  in  place 
of  your  father,  as  regards  your  property  ;  to  do  the  best  1  can 
with  it." 

"  Yes,  sir.     And  I  am  sure  vou  do  it." 

"If  Major  Parrifer — I  don't  like  tlie  man,"  broke  off  Mr. 
Brandon^  "  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.     At  the    last 


MAJOR   PARRIFEE.  77 

masriistrates'  meetino;  I  attended  he  was  so  overbeariiio:  as  to 
slint  ns  all  up.  My  nerves  were  unstrung  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  afterwards." 

"And  Squire  Todhetley  came  homo  swearing,"  I  could  not 
help  putting  in. 

•'  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Brandon.  "  Yes  ;  some  people  can  throu 
bile  off  in  that  way.  I  can't.  But,  Jolmny,  all  that  goes  foi 
nothing,  in  regard  to  the  matter  in  hand :  and  I  was  about  to 
point  out  to  you  that  if  Major  Parrifer  has  set  his  mind  upon 
buying  Reed's  cottage  and  the  bit  of  land  attached  to  it,  he  is 
no  doubt  prepared  to  oifer  a  large  pi'ice ;  more,  probably,  than 
it  is  worth.  If  so,  I  should  not,  in  your  interests,  be  justified 
in  refusing  this." 

1  could  feel  my  face  flush  with  the  sense  of  injustice,  and 
the  tears  come  into  my  eyes.  They  called  me  a  muff  for  many 
thino's. 

"  I  would  not  touch  the  money  myself,  sir.  And  if  you 
used  iffor  me  I'm  sure  it  would  never  bring  any  good." 

"  What's  that,  Johnny  ?  " 

"Money  got  by  oppression  or  injustice  never  does.  There 
was  a  fellow  at   school " 

"  Never  mind  the  fellow  at  school.  Go  on  with  your  own 
arguments." 

"To  tu.rn  Reed  out  of  the  place  where  he  has  always  lived, 
out  of  the  garden  he  has  done  so  well  by,  just  because  a  rich 
man  wants  to  get  it  into  his  possession,  would  be  fearfully 
unjust,  sir.  It  would  be  as  bad  as  the  story  we  heard  read 
in  church  last  Sunday,  for  the  First  Lesson,  of  Naboth's  vin^ 
yard.     Tod  said  so  as  we  came  along." 

"  Whose  Tod  «  " 

"  Joseph  Todhetley.  If  you  turned  Reed  out,  sir,  for  the 
sake  of  benefiting  me,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  look  people  iu 
the  face  when  they  talked  of  it.  If  you  please,  sir,  I  do  not 
think  my  father  would  allow  it  if  he  were  alive.  Reed  says 
the  place  is  like  his  homestead." 

Mr.  Brandon  measured  two  tablespoonfuls  of  medicine  into 


78  MAJOR   PARRIFEK. 

a  glass,  drank  it,  and  ate  a  French  plinn  afterwarda  The 
plums  were  in  a  jtapcr,  and  he  handed  them  to  me.  I  ate 
one,  and  tried  to  (n-ack  the  stone. 

"  You  have  taken  np  a  strong  opinion  upon  this  matter, 
Master  Jolmny." 

"  Ye?,  six.  I  like  Heed.  And  if  I  did  not,  he  has  no  more 
right  to  be  tui-ned  out  of  his  home  than  Major  Parrifer  has 
ont  of  his.  How  would  he  like  it,  if  some  great  rich  power- 
ful man  came  down  on  his  place  and  turned  him  out?" 

"  Major  Parrifer  can't  be  turned  out  of  his,  Johnny.  It  is 
his  own." 

'•  AndPeed's  place  is  mine,  sir — if  you'll  not  be  angry  with 
me  for  saving  it.     Please  don't  let  it  be  done.  Mr  Brandon." 

The  pony-carriage  came  rattling  up  at  this  juncture,  and  we 
saw  Tod  look  at  the  windows  impatiently.  I  got  up,  and  Mr. 
Bi'andon  sliook  hands  with  me. 

"  Wiiat  you  have  said  is  all  very  good,  Johnny,  right  in 
pi-ineij)le  ;  but  I  cannot  let  it  entirely  outweigh  your  interest. 
When  this  proposal  shall  be  put  before  me — as  you  say  it  will 
be — it  must  have  my  full  consideration." 

I  stopped  when  I  got  to  the  door  and  turned  to  look  at  him. 
If  lir  would  but  have  given  me  an  assurance!  He  read  in 
my  face  what  I  wanted. 

"  No,  Johnny,  I  can't  do  that.  You  may  go  home  easy  for 
the  present,  however  ;  for  I  will  promise  not  to  accept  the  offer 
to  purcliase  without  iirst  seeing  you  again  and  showing  you  my 
reasons." 

"  1  may  have  gone  back  to  school,  sir." 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  see  you  again  if  I  decide  to  accept  the 
offer,"  lie  repeated  emphatically.  And  I  went  out  to  the 
pony-chaise. 

''  Old  Brandon  means  to  sell,"  said  Tod  when  I  told  him. 
And  he  gave  the  pony  an  angry  cut,  that  made  him  fly  off 
with  a  l('a]>. 

Will  anybody  believe  that  I  never  heard  another  word  upon 
the  subjt;ct  ? — exce]>t  what  people  said  in  the  way  of  gossip, 


MAJOR   PARRIFEE.  79 

It  was  soon  known  that  Mr.  Brandon  had  declined  to  sell  the 
cottage;  and  when  his  lawver  wiote  hi  in  word  that  the  sum 
offered  for  it  was  increased  to  quite  an  unprecedented  amount, 
considering  the  small  value  of  the  cottage  and  garden  iu 
question,  Mr.  Brandon  only  sent  a  peremptory  note  back  again, 
saying  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  changing  his  decisions,  au^ 
the  place  wcls  not  for  sale.     Tod  threw  up  his  hat. 

"  Bravo,  old  Brandon  !  I  thought  he'd  not  go  quite  over  to 
the  enemy." 

George  Keed  wanted  to  thank  me  for  it.  One  evening  in 
passing  ]iis  cottage  on  my  way  home  from  the  Court,  I  leaned 
over  the  gate  to  speak  to  his  little  ones.  He  saw  me  and 
came  running  out.  The  ravs  of  tlie  setting  sun  shone  ou  the 
children's  white  corded  bonnets. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  this,  sir.  They  are  going  to  re- 
new njy  lease." 

"  Are  they  ?  All  right.  But  you  need  not  thank  me ;  I 
know  nothins:  about  it." 

George  Beed  gave  a  sort  of  decisive  nod.  "If  you  had  not 
got  the  ear  trf  Mr.  Brandon,  sir,  I  know  what  box  I'd  have 
been  in  now.     Look  at  them  ^irls !  " 

It  was  not  a  ver}'  complimentary  mode  of  speech,  as  applied 
to  the  Misses  Parrifer.  Three  of  them  vrere  passing,  dressed 
outrageously  in  the  fashion  as  usual.  I  lifted  my  straw  hat, 
and  one  of  them  nodded  in  return,  but  the  other  two  only 
looked  out  at  the  tail  of  their  eyes. 

"  The  Major  has  been  trying  it  on  wath  me  now,"  remarked 
R§ed,  watching  them  out  of  siglit.  "  When  he  found  he 
could  not  buy  the  place,  he  thought  he'd  try  and  buy  out  me. 
He  wanted  the  bit  of  land  for  a  kitchen-garden,  he  said ;  and 
he'd  give  me  a  bank-note  of  live  pounds  to  go  out  of  it. 
Much  obliged,  Major,  I  said  ;  but  I'd  not  go  for  fifty." 

"As  if  he  had  not  got  heaps  of  land  himself  to  make 
kitchen-gardens  of ! " 

"  But  don't  you  see,  Master  Johnny,  to  a  man  like  Major 
Parrifer,  wlio  thinks  the  world  was  made  for  him,  there's 


80  MAJOR   PAKRIFER. 

nothing  so  mortifying  as  being  balked.  He  set  his  mind 
npon  tliis  place  ;  he  can't  get  it ;  and  he  is  just  boiling  over. 
Ile'd  poison  me  if  he  conld.     Now  then,  what's  wanted  ? " 

Cathy  hud  come  np,  with  her  pretty  dark  eyes,  whispei'ing 
some  question  to  her  fathei'.  I  ran  on ;  it  was  getting  late, 
and  the  Manor  ever-so-far  off. 


From  that  time  tlie  feud  grew  between  Major  Parrifor  and 
George  Heed.  Not  openly  ;  not  actively.  It  could  not  well 
be  either  when  the  relative  positions  in  life  were  so  different. 
Major  l^arrifer  was  a  wealthy  proprietor,  a  county  magistrate 
(and  an  awfully  ovei'bearing  one) ;  and  George  Heed  was  a 
poor  cottager  who  worked  for  his  bread  as  a  day-labourer. 
But  that  the  Major  grew  to  abhor  and  hate  Reed;  that  the 
man,  inhal)lting  tlie  place  at  his  very  gates  in  spite  of  him, 
and  looking  at  him  independently,  as  if  to  say  he  knew  it, 
every  time  he  passed,  had  become  an  eyesore;  was  easy  to  be 
seen. 

The  Major  resented  it  on  us  all.  lie  was  rude  to  Mr. 
Brandon  when  they  met ;  he  struck  out  his  whip  once  when 
he  was  on  horseback,  and  I  p<assed  him,  as  if  he  would  like  to 
strike  me.  I  don't  know  whether  he  was  aware  of  my  \isit 
to  Mr.  Brandon ;  but  the  cottage  was  mine,  I  was  friendly 
with  Heed,  and  that  was  enough.  Months,  however,  went  f)U, 
and  nothing  came  of  it. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  winter,  when  our  chui-ch  bells 
were  going  for  service.  Major  Parrifer's  carriage  turned  out 
with  the  ladies  all  in  full  fig.  The  Major  himself  turned  out 
after  it,  walking,  one  of  his  daughters  with  him,  a  you\ig 
man  who  was  on  a  visit  there,  and  a  couple  of  servants.  As 
they  passed  George  Reed's,  the  sound  of  work  being  done  iu 
the  garden  at  the  back  cf  the  cottage  caught  the  Major's 
qni(;k  ears.  lie  turned  softly  down  Piefinch  Lane,  stole  tc 
the  high  hedge  on  tiptoe,  and  stooped  to  peep  through  it. 

Reed  was  doing  something  to  his  tiu-nips  ;  hoeing  them,  th" 


MAJOR   PAKRIFER.  81 

Major  said.  He  called  the  gentleman  to  him  and  the  two 
servants,  and  bade  them  look  throng-h  the  hedge.  Nothing 
more.     The  party  came  on  to  chnrch  then. 

On  Tuesday,  the  Major  rode  out  to  take  his  pla(;e  on  the 
magisterial  bench  at  Alcester.  It  was  bitterly  cold  January 
weather,  and  only  one  mao-istrate  besides  himself  was  on  it 
a  dergymcm.  Two  or  three  petty  offenders  were  brought  be- 
fore them,  who  were  severely  sentenced — as  prisoners  always 
were  when  Major  Parrifer  was  the  pi'esiding  judge.  Another 
magistrate  came  in  afterwards. 

Siugularly  to  say,  Tod  and  I  had  gone  to  the  town  that  day 
about  a  new  saddle  for  his  horse  ;  singular  on  account  of 
what  happened.  In  saying  we  were  there  I  am  telling  the 
truth ;  it  is  not  an  invented  fiction  to  give  colour  to  the  tale. 
Upon  turning  out  of  the  saddler's,  which  is  near  the  justice- 
room,  old  Jones  the  constable  was  coming  along  with  a  hand- 
cuffed prisoner,  a  tail  trailing  after  him. 

"  Halloa !  "  cried  Tod.     "  Here's  fun  !  " 

But  I  had  seen  what  Tod  did  not,  and  rubbed  my  eyes,  won- 
dering if  they  saw  double. 

"  Tod  !     it  is  George  Keed ! " 

Reed's  face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  he  walked  along,  not 
to  say  unwillingly,  but  as  one  in  a  state  of  sad  shame,  of  awful 
rage.  Tod  made  only  one  bound  to  the  prisoner  ;  and  old 
Jones  knowing  us,  did  not  push  him  back  again. 

"  As  I'm  a  living  man,  I  do  not  know  what  this  is  for,  or 
why  I  am  paraded  through  the  town  in  disgrace,"  spoke  lieed 
in  ansv^er  to  Tod's  question.  "  If  I'm  chai-ged  with  doing- 
wrong,  I  am  willing  to  appear  and  answer  for  it,  without  being 
made  into  a  felon  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  folks,  beforehand." 

"  Why  do  you  bring  Reed  up  in  this  manner — with  the  hand- 
cuffs on  'i "  demanded  Tod  of  the  constable. 

"  Because  the  Major  telled  me  to,  young  Mr.  Todhetley," 

Be  you  very  sure  Tod  pushed  after  them  into  the  justice- 
room  :  the  police  saw  him,  but  he  was     magistrate's  son.     The 

crowd  would  have  liked  to  push  in  also,  but  were  ignominiouslj 
4* 


62  MAJOR    PARRIFER. 

sent  to  the  right-about.  I  waited,  and  was  presently  admitted 
surre])titi()usly.  Reed  was  standing  ])efore  Major  Panifer 
and  the  other  two,  handcuffed  still;  and  I  gathered  what  the 
L'hari);;e  was. 

It  was  preferred  by  Maj^r  Parrifer,  who  had  his  servants 
tliere  and  a  gentleman  as  witnesses.  George  Reed  had  been 
working  in  his  garden  on  the  previous  Sunday  morning — which 
was  ao-ainst  the  law.  Old  Jones  had  m)ne  to  Mr.  Sterling's  and 
taken  him  on  the  Major's  warrant,  as  he  was  thrashing  corn. 

Reed's  answer  was  to  the  following  effect. 

He  was  not  working.  His  wife  was  ill — her  little  boy  being 
bnt  four  days  old— and  Dr.  Diiffham  ordered  her  some  mutton 
broth.  He  went  to  the  garden  to  get  the  tnrnips  to  put  in  it. 
It  was  only  on  a(;connt  of  her  illness  that  he  didn't  go  to  church 
himself,  he  and  Cathv.     Thev  mia-lit  ask  Dr.  Duftham. 

"  Do  yon  dare  to  tell  me  you  were  not  hoeing  turnips?" 
cried  Major  Parrifer. 

"  I  dare  to  say  I  was  not  doing  it  as  work,"  independently 
answered  the  man.  "  If  you  looked  at  me,  as  3'ou  say,  major, 
through  the  hedge,  you  must  have  seen  the  bunch  of  turnips  I 
had  got  up,  lying  near.  I  took  the  hoe  in  my  hand,  and  I  did 
use  it  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Some  dead  weeds  had  got 
thrown  along  the  bed,  by  the  children,  pei-haps,  and  I  pulled 
them  away.  I  went  indoors  directly  :  before  the  clock  stinick 
eleven  the  turnips  were  on,  boiling  with  the  scrag  of  mutton. 
I  peeled  them  and  put  them  in  myself." 

"  I  see  the  bunch  of  turnips,"  cried  one  of  the  servants. 
''  They  was  lying -" 

*'  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  roared  his  master ;  "  if  your  further 
evidence  is  wanted,  you'll  be  asked  for  it.  As  to  this  defence" — 
and  the  Major  turned  to  his  brother  magistrates  with  a  scorn- 
ful smile — ''  it  is  quite  ingenious  ;  one  of  the  clevei'  excuses 
we  usually  get  here.  But  it  will  not  serve  your  turn,  George 
Reed.     When  the  sanctity  of  the  Sabbath  is  violated " 

"  Reed  is  not  a  man  to  say  he  did  not  do  a  thing  if  ho  did," 
interrupted  Tod. 


MAJOR   PAREIFER.  83 

The  Mujor  glared  at  him  for  an  instant,  and  then  put  out  of 
hand  a  big  gold  pencil  he  was  waving  majestically. 

"  Clear  the  room  of  spectators,"  said  he  to  the  policeman. 

"Which  was  all  Tod  got  for  interfering,  Yie  had  to  go 
out:  and  in  a  miunte  or  two  Reed  came  out  also,  handcuffed 
as  before  :  not  in  charge  of  old  Jones,  bnt  of  the  county 
police.  lie  had  been  sentenced  to  a  month's  imprisonment 
Major  Parrifer  had  wanted  to  make  it  three  months  ;  he 
said  something  about  six ;  but  the  other  two  thought 
they  saw  some  slightly  extenuating  circumstances  in  the 
case.  A  solicitor  who  v\'as  intimate  with  the  Sterlings, 
and  knew  Heed  very  well,  had  been  present  towards  the 
end. 

"  Could  you  not  have  spoken  in  my  defence,  sir  ? "  asked 
Reed,  as  he  passed  this  gentleman  in  coming  out. 

"  I  would  had  I  been  able.  But  you  see,  my  man,  when  the 
law  gets  broken " 

"  The  devil  take  the  law,"  said  Reed  savagely.  "  What  I 
want  is  justice." 

"  And  the  administrators  of  it  are  determined  to  uphold  it, 
what  can  be  said  ?  "  went  on  the  solicitor  equably,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  interruption. 

"  You  would  make  out  that  T  broke  the  law,  just  doing  what 
I  did  ;  and  I  swear  it  was  no  more  ?  That  I  can  be  legally 
punished  for  it  ?  " 

"  Don't,  Reed  ;  it's  of  no  use.  The  Major  and  his  witnesses 
Bwoi-e  you  were  at  work.     And  it  appears  you  were." 

"  I  asked  them  to  take  a  fine — if  I  must  be  punished.  I 
might  have  found  friends  to  advance  it  for  me." 

"  Just  so.  And  for  that  reason  of  course  they  did  not  take 
it,"  said  the  candid  lawyer. 

"  What  is  my  wife  to  do  while  I  am  in  prison  ?  And  the 
Dhildren  ?  I  may  come  out  to  find  them  starved.  A  month's 
lono-  enouo;h  to  starve  them  in  such  weather  as  this." 

Reed  was  allowed  time  for  no  more.  He  would  not  have 
been  allowed  that,  but  for  having  been  jammed  by  the  crowd 


84  MAJOR   PAKKIFER. 

at  the  doorway  He  caiiglit  my  eye  as  they  were  getting 
clear, 

"  Master  Johnny,  will  yon  go  to  the  Court  for  nie — your  own 
placte,  sir — and  tell  the  master  that  I  swear  I  am  innocent? 
Pei'haps  he'll  let  a  few  shillings  go  to  the  wife  weekly ;  tell  him 
with  my  duty  that  I'll  work  it  out  as  soon  as  I  am  released. 
All  this  is  done  out  of  revenge,  sir,  because  Major  Parrifer 
couldn't  get  me  from  my  cottage.     May  the  Lord  repay  him  !  " 

It  caused  a  connnotiou,  I  can  tell  you,  this  imprisonment  of 
Reed ;  the  place  was  ringing  with  it  between  the  Court  and 
Dyke  Manor.  Our  two  houses  seemed  to  have  more  to  d% 
with  it  than  other  people's;  first  because  Reed  worked  at  the 
Court;  secondl}',  because  I,  who  owned  both  the  Court  and 
the  cottage,  lived  at  the  Manor.  People  took  it  up  pretty 
warmly,  and  Mrs.  Reed  and  the  children  were  cared  for.  Mr 
Sterling  paid  her  five  shillings  a  week ;  and  Mr.  Brandon  and 
tlie  Squire  helped  her  on  the  quiet,  and  there  were  others. 
In  small  country  localities  gentlemen  don't  like  to  say  openly 
that  their  neighbours  are  in  the  wrong  :  at  any  rate,  they 
rarely  Jo  anytliing  by  way  of  remedy.  Some  spoke  of  an 
ap2^eal  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  but  it  came  to  nothing,  and 
no  steps  were  taken  to  liberate  Reed.  Bill  Whitney,  who  wa8 
staying  a  week  with  us,  wi'ote  and  told  liis  mother  about  it ; 
she  sent  back  a  sovereign  for  Mrs.  Reed  ;  we  three  took  it  to 
her,  and  went  about  saying  old  Parrifer  ought  to  be  kicked, 
whi(;h  was  a  relief  to  our  feelings. 

But  there's  something  to  tell  about  Cathy.  On  the  day  that 
Reed  was  taken  up,  it  was  not  known  at  his  home  immediately. 
The  nei<z;hl)Ours,  aware  that  the  wife  was  ill,  said  nothing  to 
her — for  old  Duffham  thought  she  was  going  to  have  a  fever 
and  ordei-cd  her  to  be  kept  quiet.  For  one  thing,  they  did  not 
know  Avhat  there  was  to  tell ;  except  that  Reed  had  been 
marched  off  from  his  work  in  handcuffs  by  Jones  the  constable. 
In  the  evening,  when  news  came  of  his  connnittal,  it  was 
agreed  that  an  excuse  should  be  made  to  Mrs.  Reed  that 
her  huslxuid  had  gone  out  on  a  business  job  for  his  master ; 


MAJOR    PARRFFEii. 


85 


and  that  Cathv — who  could  not  fail  to  hear  the  truth  from 
one  or  another — should  be  warned  not  to  say  anything. 

"  Tell  Cathy  to  come  out  here,"  said  the  woman,  looking  over 
the  gate.  It  was  the  little  girl  they  spoke  to ;  who  could  talk 
well :  and  she  answered  that  Cathy  was  not  there.  So  Ann 
Perkins,  Mrs,  Reed's  sister,  was  called  out. 

"  AV here's  Cathy  ? "'  cried  they. 

Ann  Perkins  answered  in  a  passion — that  she  did  not  know 
where  Catliy  was,  but  should  uncommonly  like  to  know,  and 
she  only  wished  she  was  behind  her — keeping  her  there  with 
her  sister  when  she  ouirht  to  be  at  her  own  home?  Then  the 
women  told  x\nn  Perkins  what  they  had  been  intending  to  tell 
Cathv,  and  looked  out  for  the  latter. 

She  did  not  come  back.  The  night  passed,  and  the  next 
day  passed,  and  Cathy  was  not  seen  or  heard  of.  The  only 
person  who  appeared  to  have  met  her  was  Goody  Picker.  It 
was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Tuesday,  and  Cathy 
had  her  best  bonnet  on.  Mother  Picker  remarked  upon  her 
looking  so  smart,  and  asked  where  she  was  going  to.  Cathy 
answered  that  her  uncle  (who  lived  at  Evesham)  had  sent  tc 
say  she  must  go  over  there  at  once.  "  But  when  she  came  to 
the  two  roads,  she  turned  <:»ff  quite  on  the  conterairy  way  to 
Evesham,  and  I  thought  the  young  woman  must  be  daft,"  con- 
cluded Mrs.  Picker. 

The  month  passed  away,  and  Reed  came  out;  but  Cathy 
had  not  returned.  He  got  home  on  foot,  in  the  afternoon  ; 
with  his  hair  cut  close,  and  seemed  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  The 
man  had  been  daunted.  It  was  an  awful  insult  to  put  up(^n 
him ;  a  slur  on  his  good  name  for  life  ;  and  some  of  them  said 
George  Reed  would  never  hold  up  his  head  again.  Had  he 
been  cruel  or  vindictive,  he  might  have  revenged  himself  on 
Major  Parrifer,  personally,  in  a  manner  the  Major  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  foro;et. 

The  wife  was  about  accain,  but  sicklv :  the  little  ones  did 
not  at  first  know  their  father.  One  of  the  first  people  he 
asked  after  was  Cathy.     The  girl  was  not  at  hand  to  welcome 


^(i  MAJOR    PARRIFER. 

him,  and  lie  took  it  in  tlie  lii^lit  of  a  reproach.     When  men 
cunie  for  the  fii"st  time  out  of  jail,  they  arc  sensitive. 

"Mr.  Sterling-  called  in  yesterday,  George,  to  say  you 
were  to  go  to  your  work  again  as  soon  as  ever  you  came 
home,"  said  the  wife,  evaidng  the  question  about  Cathy. 
"Everybody  has  been  so  kind  ;  they  know  you  didn't  deser\e 
what  3'ou  g')'." 

"  Ah,"  said  Reed,  carelessly.     "  Where's  Cathy  ?  " 

Mrs.  lieed  felt  herself  obliged  to  tell.  No  diplomatist,  she 
brought  out  the  news  abi-uptly :  Cathy  had  not  been  seen  or 
heard  of  since  the  afternoon  he  was  sent  to  prison.  That 
aroused  Reed:  nothing  else  seemed  to  have  done  it:  and  he 
got  up  from  his  chaii". 

"  Whv,  where  is  she  ?     What's  become  of  her  ?  " 

The  neighbours  had  been  indulging  in  sundry  speculations 
on  the  same  question,  wliicli  they  had  obligingly  favoured 
Mrs.  Reed  with  ;  but  she  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  impart 
them  to  her  husband. 

"  Cathy  was  a  good  gii'l  on  the  whole,  George ;  putting  aside 
that  she'd  do  no  work,  and  spent  her  time  reading  good-for- 
nothing  books.  What  I  think  is  this — that  she  heard  of  your 
misfortune  after  she  left,  and  wouldn't  come  home  to  face  it. 
She  is  eighteen  now,  yon  know." 

"  Come  home  from  where  ?  " 

Mrs.  Reed  had  to  tell  the  whole  truth.  That  Cathy,  dressed 
up  in  her  best  things,  had  left  home  without  saying  a  word  to 
anybody,  stealing  out  of  the  house  unseen  ;  she  had  been  met 
in  the  road  by  Mrs.  Picker,  and  told  lier  what  has  already 
been  said.  But  the  uncle  at  Evesham  had  seen  nothino;  of 
her. 

Forgetting  his  shorn  hair- -as  he  would  have  to  forget  it, 
or,  at  least,  to  ignore  it  until  it  should  grow  again — George 
Reed  went  tramping  ofp,  there  and  tlicn,  the  neai-ly  two  miles 
of  way  to  Mother  Picker's.  She  could  not  tell  him  much 
more  than  he  already  knew.  "  Cathy  was  all  in  her  best,  her 
ciu'ls  'iledj  and  her  pink  ribbons  as  fresh  as  her  cheeks,  and 


MAJOR    PARRIFER.  87 

Baid  in  answer  to  :[iiestions  that  she  had  been  sent  for  sudden 
to  her  uncle's  at  Evesham:  but  she  had  turned  off  quite  the 
conterairv  road."  Fi'oni  thence  Reed  walked  on  to  his  brother's 
at  Evesham  ;  and  learnt  that  Cathy  had  not  been  sent  for,  anc. 
had  not  come. 

When  Eeed  f^c»t  home,  he  was  dead-beat.  How  many  miles 
the  man  had  walked  that  bleak  February  day,  he  did  not  stay 
to  think — perhaps  twenty.  When  excitement  buoys  np  the 
spirit,  the  body  does  not  feel  fatigue.  Mrs.  Keed  put  supper 
before  her  husband,  and  he  ate  a  bit  mechanically,  lost  in 
thought. 

"  It  fairly  'mazes  me,"  he  said,  presently,  in  the  local  phrase- 
ology. "  But  for  going  out  in  her  best  things,  I  should  think 
some  bad  accident  had  come  to  her.  There's  ponds  about, 
and  young  girls  might  slip  in  unawaies.  But  the  putting  on 
her  b(5St  things  shows  she  was  going  somewhere." 

"She  put  'em  on,  and  went  off  unseen,"  repeated  Mrs.  Reed, 
snuffing  the  candle.  "  /  should  have  thought  she'd  maybe 
gone  off  to  some  wake — only  there  wasn't  one  agate  within 
range." 

"  Cathy  had  no  bad  acquaintance  to  lead  her  astray,"  he 
resumed.  "  The  girls  about  here  are  decent,  and  mind  their 
work." 

Which  Cathy  didn't,  thought  Mrs.  Reed.  "  Cathy  held  her 
head  above  'em,"  she  said,  aloud  :  "  it's  my  belief  she  used  to 
fancy  herself  one  o'  them  fine  ladies  in  her  halfpenny  books. 
She  didn't  seem  to  make  acquaintance  with  nobody  but  that 
young  Parrifer.  She'd  talk  to  him  by  the  hour  together,  and 
I  couldn't  2:et  her  indoors." 

Reed  lifted  his  head.  "  Young  Parrifer  ! — what — his  son  ? " 
turning  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  Parrifer  Hall.  "  Cathy 
talked  to  him  ?  " 

"  By  the  hour  together,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Reed.  He'd  be  on 
that  side  the  gate,  a-talking,  and  laughing,  and  leaning  on  it; 
and  Cathy,  she'd  be  in  the  path  by  the  tall  hollyhocks,  talkirg 
back  to  him,  and  fondling  the  children." 


88  MAJOR    PARRIFER. 

Keed  rose  np,  a  strange  look  on  his  face.  "  IIow  long  was 
that  rjoinir  on  ?  " 

"  Ever  so  long  ;  I  cannot  I'cnieniber  just.  But  Y(  ung  Pai- 
rifer  is  only  at  the  Hall  by  fits  and  starts." 

"  And  you  never  told  nie,  woman  I  " 

"I  thought  no  hai-m  of  it.  I  don't  think  harm  of  it  now," 
emphatically  added  Mrs.  Reed.  The  worst  of  young  Parrifer, 
that  I've  seen,  is  that  he's  as  soft  as  a  tomtit." 

Heed  put  on  his  hat  without  another  word,  and  walked  out. 
Late  as  it  was,  he  was  going  to  the  Ilall.  lie  rang  a  peal  at 
it,  more  like  a  loi-d,  than  a  labourer  just  let  out  of  prison. 
There  Avas  some  delay  in  opening  the  door:  the  household 
had  gone  upstairs  ;  but  a  man  came  at  last. 

"  I  want  to  see  Major  Parrifer." 

The  words  were  so  authoritative  ;  the  man's  appearance  so 
Btrange,  with  his  tall  figure  and  his  clipped  hair,  as  he  pushed 
forwai'd  into  the  hall,  that  the  servant  momentarily  lost  hi? 
wits.  A  light,  in  a  room  on  the  left,  guided  Reed  ;  he  enter- 
ed it,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Major  Parrifer,  whc- 
was  seated  in  an  easy  chair  before  a  good  tire,  spirits  on  tho 
table,  and  a  cigar  in  his  mouth.  What  with  the  curling  smoke 
from  that,  what  with  the  faint  light — for  all  the  candles  had 
been  put  out  but  one — the  Majoi*  did  not  at  first  distinguish 
his  late  visitor's  face.  AVlien  the  bare  head  and  the  resolute 
eyes  met  his,  he  certainly  paled  a  little,  and  the  cigar  fell  ou 
the  carpet. 

"  1  want  my  daughter.  Major  Parrifer." 

To  hear  a  demand  made  for  a  daughter  when  the  Major  had 
possibly  been  thinking  the  demand  might  be  for  his  life,  was 
undoubtedly  a  relief.     It  bi'ought  back  his  courage. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  fellow  ?  "  he  growled,  stamping  out 
the  fire  of  the  cio-ar.     "Are  von  out  of  your  mind?  " 

~  AJ  Ai 

"Not  quite.  You  might  have  driven  some  men  out  of 
theirs,  though,  by  what  you've  done.  ^Ve''ll  let  th^t  part  ho^ 
Major.  I  have  come  to-night  about  my  daughter.  Where  ia 
Bhe?" 


MAJOR    PARKIFEB.  89 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Keed  stood  just  inside 
the  door,  his  hat  in  his  hand  ;  he  did  not  forget  his  good  man- 
ners even  in  the  presence  of  his  enemy ;  they  were  a  habit 
with  him.  The  Major,  who  had  risen  in  his  surprise,  stared 
at  him  :  lie  really  knew  nothing  whatever  of  the  matter,  not 
even  that  the  girl  was  missing  ;  and  he  did  think  Reed's  im- 
prisonment mnst  have  turned  his  brain.  Perhaps  Heed  saw 
that  he  was  not  understood. 

"I  come  home  from  prison,  into  which  you  put  me.  Major 
Parrifer,  to  find  my  daughter  Catherine  gone.  She  went  away 
the  day  I  was  taken  up.  Where  she  went,  or  what  she's  doing, 
heaven  knows;  but  you  or  yours  are  answerable  for  it,  which 
ever  way  it  may  be." 

"  You  have  been  drinking,"  said  Major  Parrifer. 

"  You  have,  maybe,"  returned  Reed,  glancing  at  the  spirits. 

"Either  Cathy  went  out  on  a  harmless  jaunt,  and  is  staying 
away  because  she  can't  face  the  shame  at  home  which  you 
have  put  there ;  or  else  she  went  out  to  meet  your  son,  and 
has  been  taken  away  by  him.  I  think  it  must  be  the  last ;  my 
fears  whisper  it  to  me ;  and,  if  so,  you  can't  be  off  knowing 
something  of  it.     Major  Parrifer,  I  must  have  my  daughter." 

Wlietlier  tlie  hint  given  about  his  son  alarmed  the  Major^ 
causing  him  to  forget  his  bluster  for  once,  and  answer  civilly 
he  certainly  did  it.  His  son  was  in  Irehmd  with  his  regiment, 
he  said  ;  liad  not  been  at  the  Hall  for  weeks  and  weeks ;  he 
could  answer  for  it  that  Lieutenant  Parrifer  knew  nothing 
of  the  girl. 

"  He  was  here  at  Christmas,"  said  George  Reed.  "  I  saw 
him." 

"  And  left  two  or  three  days  after  it.  How  dare  you,  fel- 
low, charge  him  with  such  a  thing  ?  He'd  wring  your  neck 
for  you  if  he  wei'c  liere." 

"  Perhaps  I  might  find  cause  to  Avring  his  first.  Major 
Parrifer,  I  want  my  daughter." 

"  If  you  do  not  get  out  of  my  house,  Pll  have  you  brought 
before  me  to-morrow  for  trespassing,  and  give  you  a  second 


90 


MAJOR    PARRIFER. 


inontli'fi  imprisonment,"  roared  the  Major,  gathering  bliistei 
and  courage.  "  You  want  another  month  of  it :  this  one  does 
not  appear  to  have  done  you  the  good  it  oiiglit.     Kow o-o!" 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Reed,  who  began  to  see  the  Major  realh"  did 
not  know  anytliingof  Catliy— and  it  had  not  been  very  pro])a- 
ble  that  he  did.  "But  I'd  like  to  leave  a  wcnxl  behind  me. 
You  have  succeeded  in  doing  me  a  great  injury,  Major  Pairi- 
fer.  You  are  rich  and  powerful,  I  am  poor  and  k)wly.  You 
set  your  mind  on  my  bit  of  a  home,  and  because  you  could 
2iot  drive  me  from  it,  you  took  advantage  of  your  magistrate's 
post  to  sentence  me  to  prison,  and  so  be  revenged.  It  has 
done  me  a  great  deal  of  harm.     AVliat  good  has  it  done  you  ?" 

iNfajor  Parrifer  could  not  speak  for  rage. 

"  It  will  come  home  to  you,  sir ;  mark  me  if  it  does  not. 
God  has  seen  my  trouble,  and  my  wife's  trouble,  and  I  don't 
believe  He  ever  let  such  a  wj-ong  pass  by  unrewarded.  li 
will  come  home  to  you,  Major  Parr^fery 

George  Reed  went  out,  quietly  shutting  the  hall-dorr  be- 
hind him,  and  walked  home  through  the  thick  flakes  of  suow 
that  had  begun  to  fall. 


^m^- 


Y. 


COMIXG  HOME  TO  IIIAI. 


^IIE  year  \ras  getting  on.     Summer  fruits  were  ripen- 
,  ^^   ing.     It  had  been  a  warm  spring,  and  hot  weather 
Sj^^^^ji  was  upon  us  early. 

One  fine  Sunday  morning,  George  Reed  came  out 
of  his  cottage  and  turned  up  Piefinch  Lane.  Kis  little  girls 
were  witli  him,  one  in  either  hand,  in  their  clean  cotton  frocks 
and  pinafores,  and  straw  hats.  People  had  gone  into  church, 
and  the  hells  had  ceased.  Reed  had  not  been  constant  in  at- 
tendance since  the  misfortune  in  the  winter,  when  Major 
Parrifer  put  him  into  prison.  The  month's  imprisonment  had 
altered  him ;  his  daughter  Cathy's  mysterious  absence  had 
altered  him  more :  he  seemed  not  to  lilce  to  face  people,  and 
any  trilie  was  made  an  excuse  to  himself  to  keep  away  from 
service.  Tu-day  it  was  afforded  by  the  baby's  illness.  Reed 
said  to  his  wife  that  he  would  take  the  little  girls  out  a  bit  to 
keep  the  place  quiet. 

Rumors  were  abroad  that  he  had  heard  once  from  Cathy; 
that  she  told  him  she  should  come  back  some  day  and  surprise 
him  and  the  neiolibours,  that  she  was  "  all  riMit,  and  he  had  no 
call  to  fret  after  her."  Whether  this  was  true  or  pure  fiction, 
Reed  did  not  say  :  lie  was  a  closer  man  than  he  used  to  be. 

Lifting  the  children  over  a  stile  in  Piefinch  Lane,  just 
beyond  his  garden,  Reed  strolled  along  the  cross  path  of  the 
field.  It  brought  him  to  the  high  hedge  that  skirted  the  prem- 
ises of  Major  Parrifer.  The  man  had  taken  it  by  chance,  be- 
cause it  was  a  quiet  walk.     He  was  passing  along  slowly,  the 


02  COTSUNG    HOME   TO    HIM. 

childrcTi  rnnniiig  about  the  field,  on  which  the  second  crop  of 
e^rass  was  beginning  to  grow,  when  voices  on  the  other  side 
the  hedge  struck  on  his  ear.  Reed  gently  put  some  of  the 
foliage  aside,  and  looked  through  ;  just  as  Major  Parrifer  had 
looked  tln'ough  the  liedge  in  Pielinch  Lane  at  him,  that  Sunday 
mornino;  some  few  months  before. 

Major  Parrifer  had  been  suffering  from  a  slight  temporary 
indisposition,  lie  did  not  consider  himself  sufficiently  recov- 
ered to  attend  service,  but  neither  was  he  ill  enou^-h  to  lie  in 
bed.  AVitli  tlie  departure  of  his  family  for  church,  the  Major 
liad  come  strolling  out  in  the  garden  in  an  airy  dressing-gown, 
and  there  saw  his  gai-dener  picking  pea's. 

''  Halloa,  Ilotty  !     This  ought  to  have  been  done  befoi-e." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know  it;  I'm  a  little  late,"  answered  Ilotty; 
"  I  shall  have  done  in  two  or  three  minutes.  The  cook  makes 
a  fuss  if  I  pick  'em  too  early  ;  she  sa^s  they  don't  eat  so  well." 

The  peas  were  for  the  delectation  of  the  Major's  own  palate, 
so  he  found  no  more  fault.  Ilotty  went  on  with  liis  work, 
and  the  Major  gave  a  general  look  round.  On  a  wall  near,  at 
right  angles  with  the  hedge  through  which  Peed  was  then 
peering,  some  fine  apricots  were  growing,  green  yet. 

"  These  apricots  want  thinning,  Ilotty,"  observed  the  Major. 

"  I  have  thinned  'em  some,  sir." 

"Not  enough.  Our  apricots  were  not  as  fine  last  year  as 
they  ought  to  have  been.  I  said  then  they  had  not  had  sufficient 
room  to  grow.  Green  apricots  are  alvva3's  useful ;  they  make 
the  best  tart  known." 

Major  Pan'ifer  walked  to  the  greenhouse,  outside  which  a 
small  basket  was  hauijino-  broufjlit  it  back,  and  bejran  to  luck 
some  of  the  apricots  where  tliey  looked  too  thick.  Peed,  out- 
side, watched  the  process— not  alone.  As  luck  had  it,  a  man 
ap[)cared  in  the  field  j^ath,  who  ]iroved  to  be  Gruff  Plossom, 
the  Jacobsons'  grot>m,  coming  home  to  spend  Sunday  with  his 
friends.  Peed  made  a  sign  to  Blossom  for  silence,  and  caused 
him  to  look  on  also. 

With  the  small  basket  half  full,  the  Major  desisted,  thinking 


COMING    HOME   TO   HIM.  93 

possibly  be  bad  plucked  euougb,  and  turned  away  carrjang  it. 
Hotty  came  out  from  the  peas  tben,  his  task  finished.  They 
sti'olled  slowly  down  the  path  by  the  hedge  ;  the  Major  first, 
llotty  a  step  behind,  talking  about  late  and  early  peas,  and 
whether  Prussian  bines  or  marrowfats  were  the  best  eating. 

"  r>o  you  see  those  weeds  in  the  onion-bed  ?  "  suddenly  asked 
the  Major,  stopping  as  they  were  passing  it. 

Ilotty  turned  his  head  to  look.  A  few  weeds  certainly  had 
sprung  up.  He'd  attend  to  it  on  the  morrow,^he  told  hia 
master ;  and  then  said  something  about  the  work  accumulating 
almost  beyond  him,  since  the  under  gardener  had  been  at 
home  ill. 

"Pick  them  out  now,"  said  the  Major;  "  there's  not  a  dozen 
of  them." 

Hotty  stooped  to  do  as  he  was  bid.  The  Major  made  no 
more  ado  but  stooped  also,  he  himself  uprooting  quite  half  of 
tlie  weeds.  Not  much  more,  in  all,  than  the  dozen  he  had 
Bpoken  of :  and  then  they  went  on  with  their  baskets  to  the 
house. 

Never  had  George  Reed  experienced  so  much  gratification 
since  the  day  he  came  out  of  prison.  "  Did  you  see  the  Major, 
at  it? — thinning  his  apricots  and  pulling  up  his  weeds?  he 
asked  of  Gruff  Blossom.  And  Blossom's  reply,  gruff  as  usual, 
was  to  ask  what  niight  be  supposed  to  ail  his  eyes  that  he 
shouldn't  see  it. 

"  Yery  good,"  said  Reed. 

One  evening  in  the  following  week,  when  we  were  sitting 
out  on  the  lawn,  the  Squire  smoking,  Mrs.  Todhetley  nursing 
her  face  in  her  hand,  with  tooth-ache  as  usual.  Tod  teazing 
Hugh  and  Lena,  and  I  up  in  the  beech-tree,  a  horseman  rode 
in.  It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Jacobson.  Giles  took  his  horse,  and 
he  came  and  sat  down  on  the  bench.  The  Squire  asked  him 
what  he'd  take,  and  he  chose  cider,  being  thirsty.  Which 
Thomas  brought. 

"  Here's  a  go,"  began  Mr.  Jacobson.  "  Have  you  heard 
what's  up  ? " 


94  COMING    HOME   TO    HIM. 

"  I've  not  heard  anything,"  answered  the  Sqnirc. 

"Major  Parrifer  has  got  a  snnnnons  sei'ved  on  hini  for 
"working  in  liis  garden  on  a  Sunday,  and  is  to  appear  belcre 
the  magistrates  at  Alcester  to-inorrou-,"  continued  old  Jacob- 
son,  drinkiiif)'  off  a  fflass  of  cider  at  a  drauo;ht. 

"No!"  cried  Squire  Todhetley. 

"  It's  a  fact.  Blossom,  our  groom,  has  also  a  summons 
served  on  him  to  give  evidence." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  lifted  her  face ;  Tod  left  Hugh  and  Lena 
to  themselves:  I  slid  down  from  the  beech-tree;  and  we 
listened  for  more. 

I?ut  Mr.  Jacobson  could  not  give  j)articulars,  or  say  much 
else  than  he  had  already  said.  All  he  knew  was,  that  on 
Monday  morning  George  Reed  had  appeared  before  the 
magistrates  and  made  a  complaint.  At  first  they  were  un- 
willing to  grant  a  summons;  laughed  at  it;  but  Reed,  in  a 
burst  of  i-eproach,  civilly  delivered,  asked  why  there  should 
be  a  law  for  the  poor  and  not  for  the  rich,  and  in  what  lay 
the  difference  between  himself  and  Major  Parrifer;  that  the 
one  should  be  called  to  account  and  punished  for  doing 
wrong,  and  the  other  was  not  even  to  be  accused  when  he  had 
done  it. 

"Brandon  haj^pened  to  be  on  the  Bench,"  continued  Ja- 
cobson. "  He  appeared  struck  with  the  argument,  and  signed 
the  summons." 

The  Squire  nodded. 

"My  belief  is,"  continued  old  Jacobson,  with  a  wink  over 
the  rim  of  the  cider  glass,  "  that  the  granting  of  that  summons 
was  as  good  as  a  play  to  Brandon  and  the  rest.  Pd  as  lieve, 
though,  that  they'd  not  brono-ht  Blossom  into  it." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Todhetley,  who  had  been  grieved  at 
the  time  at  the  injustice  done  to  Reed. 

"  Well,  Parrifer  is  a  disagreeal)le  man  to  offend.  And  he 
is  sure  to  visit  Blossom's  part  in  this  on  me." 

"Let  him,"  said  Tod,  with  enthusiasm.  "Well  done, 
George  Reed  ! " 


COMma    HOME    TO    HIM.  95 

Be  yon  very  sure  we  went  over  to  the  fight.  Squire  Tod- 
hetley  did  not  api3ear:  at  which  Tod  exploded  a  little:  he 
only  wished  he  was  a  magistrate,  wouldn't  he  take  his  place 
and  judge  the  Major!  Uut  the  Pater  said  that  when  people 
had  lived  to  his  age,  they  liked  to  be  at  peace  with  their 
neighbours — not  but  what  he  hoped  Parrifer  would  "get  it," 
for  having  been  so  cruelly  hard  upon  Reed. 


Major  Parrifer  came  driving  to  the  Court-house  in  his  high 
carriage  with  a  great  bluster,  and  his  iron-grey  hair  sticking 
up,  two  grooms  attending  him.  Only  the  magistrates  who 
had  granted  the  sunnnons  sat.  The  news  had  gone  about 
like  wild-fire,  and  several  of  them  were  in  the  town  and 
about,  but  did  not  take  their  places.  1  don't  believe  there 
was  one  would  have  lifted  his  finger  to  save  the  Major  from 
a  month's  imprisonment ;  but  they  did  not  care  to  sentence 
him  to  it. 

It  was  a  regular  battle.  Major  Parrifer  was  in  an  awful 
passion  all  the  time;  asking,  when  he  came  in,  how  they 
dared  summons  him.  Ilim  !  Mr.  Bi-andon,  cool  as  a  cucum- 
ber, answered  in  his  squeaky  voice,  that  when  a  complaint  of 
breaking  the  law  was  preferred  before  them  and  sworn  to  by 
witnesses,  they  could  only  act  upon  it. 

First  of  all,  the  Major  denied  the  facts.  He  work  in  his 
garden  on  a  Sunday  ! — the  very  supposition  was  preposterous! 
Upon  which  George  Eeed,  who  was  in  his  best  clothes,  and 
looked  every  bit  as  good  as  the  Major,  and  far  pleasanter, 
testified  to  what  he  had  seen. 

Major  Parrifer,  dancing  with  temper  when  he  found  he 
had  been  looked  at  through  the  hedge,  and  thar  it  was  Reed 
who  looked,  gave  the  lie  direct.  He  called  his  gardener, 
Richard  Ilotty,  ordering  him  to  testify  whether  he,  tlie 
Major,  ever  worked  in  his  garden,  either  on  Sundays  or  week- 
days. 

'•Ilotty   was   working    himself,   gentlemen,"    interrupted 


96  <X)MING    HOME    TO    HIM. 

George  Heed.  "He  was  picking  peas;  and  he  helped  to 
weed  the  onion-bed  ?  But  it  was  done  by  ais  master's  orders, 
60  it  M'onld  be  nnjust  to  seek  to  pnnish  him." 

The  Major  turned  on  Reed  as  if  he  would  strike  him,  and 
dcmajidiid  of  the  magistratt's  why  they  permitted  the  fellow 
tj  interrup!.  They  ordered  Reed  to  be  quiet,  and  told  llotty 
t)  proceed. 

But  Ilotty  was  one  of  those  slow  men  to  whom  anything  like 
evasion  is  difficult.  His  master  had  thinned  the  apricot  tree 
that  Sunday  morning ;  he  had  helped  to  weed  the  onion-bed  ; 
Ilotty,  conscious  of  the  fact,  but  not  liking  to  admit  it,  stam- 
mered and  stuttered,  and  made  a  poor  figure  of  himself.  Mr. 
Brandon  thought  he  would  help  him  out. 

"Did  you  see  your  master  pick  the  apricots?  " 

"  I  see  him  pick — just  a  few  ;  green  uiis,"  answered  Ilotty, 
shuiiling  from  one  leg  to  the  other  in  his  perplexity.  "  'Twarn't 
to  be  called  work,  sir." 

"  Oh  !     And  did  he  help  you  to  weed  the  onion-bed  ? " 

"There  warn't  a  dozen  weeds  in  it  in  all,  as  the  Major 
said  to  me  at  the  time,"  returned  IIott3\  "  lie  see  'em,  and 
stopped  down  on  the  spur  o'  the  moment,  and  me  too.  AVe 
had  'em  np  in  a  twinkling.  'Twarn't  work,  sir;  couldn't 
be  called  it  nohow?  The  Major,  he  never  do  work  at  no 
time." 

Blossom  had  not  arrived,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell  how  the 
thing  wonld  terminate :  the  Major  had  this  witness,  Ilotty, 
such  as  he  was,  protesting  that  nothing  to  be  called  work  was 
done.     lieed  had  no  witness,  as  yet. 

"  Old  Jacobson  is  keeping  Blossom  back,  Johnny,"  whis- 
pered Tod.     "  It's  a  sin  and  a  shame." 

"  No,  he  is  not,"  I  said.     "  Look  there  !  " 

Blossom  was  coming  in.  He  had  walked  over,  and  not 
hurried  himself.  Major  Parrifer  cast  daggers  upon  him,  if 
looks  could  do  it,  but  it  made  no  diiference  to  Blossom. 

He  <rave  his  evidence  in  his  usual  surlv  manner.  It  was 
clear  and  straightforward.     Major  l^arrifer  had  thinned  the 


COMING    HOME    TO    HIM.  97 

apricot  tree  for  its  own  benefit ;  and  had  weeded  the  onion 
bed,  Ilotty  helping  at  the  weeds  by  order. 

"  What  brought  ij')ii  spyin^^  at  the  place,  James  Blossom  ?  '* 
demanded  a  lawyer  on  the  Major's  l)ehaif. 

"  Accident,"  was  tlie  short  answer, 

"  Indeed  1  Yon  didn't  go  there  on  pnrpose,  1  snppose  ? — 
and  skulk  under  the  hedge  on  pnrpose  ? — and  peer  into  the 
Major's  garden  on  purpi)se  'i " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Blossom,  "  The  field  is  open  to  walk 
in,  and  I  was  crossing  it  on  my  way  to  old  father's.  George 
Keed  made  me  a  sign  afore  I  came  np  to  him,  to  look  in,  as 
he  was  doino- ;  and  I  did  so,  not  knowing  what  there  mio-iit 
be  to  see.  It  would  be  nothing  to  me  if  the  Major  worked  in 
his  garden  of  a  Snndav  from  sunrise  to  sunset ;  he's  welcome 
to  do  it ;  but  if  von  summon  me  here  and  ask  me,  did  I  see 
him  working,  I  say  yes,  I  did.  Why  d'you  send  me  a  sum- 
mons if  vou  don't  want  me  to  tell  the  truth  ?  Let  me  be,  and 
I'd  ha'  said  nothing  to  mortal  man." 

Evidently  nothing  favourable  to  the  defence  could  be  got 
out  of  James  Blossom.  Mr.  Brandon  began  saying  to  the 
Major  that  he  feared  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  they  shonld 
be  obliged  to  convict  him:  and  he  was  met  by  a  storm  of  re- 
proach. 

C<))iviGth.\n'\\  roared  the  Major.  For  having  picked  two 
or  three  green  apricots — and  for  stooping  to  pull  up  a  couple 
or  so  of  worthless  weeds?  lie  would  be  glad  to  ask  which 
of  them,  his  brother  magistrates  sitting  there,  would  not  pick 
an  apricot,  or  a  peach,  or  what  not,  on  a  Sunday,  if  he  wanted 
to  eat  one.     The  thing  was  ntterly  preposterous. 

"  And  what  was  it  /did  ?  "  demanded  Geoige  Heed,  drown- 
ing interfering  voices  that  would  have  stopped  him.  "I 
went  to  the  garden  to  get  up  a  bunch  of  turnips  for  my  sick 
wife,  and  seein<;  some  withered  weeds  fluno;  on  the  bed  I  drew 
them  (;ff  with  the  hoe.  What  was  that  I  ask  ?  And  it  was 
no  more.     No  more,  a'entlemen,  in  the  sio-ht  of  heaven." 

No  particular  answer  was  given  to  this ;  perhaps  the  jug- 


?j8  comixg  iiomr  to  iiim. 

tices  had  not  any  ready.  ^>lv.  P>rand()n  was  Logi lining  to  con- 
fer with  the  other  two  in  an  under  tune,  when  Ivecd  spoke 
again. 

'•  I  was  dragged  up  here  in  liandeuffs,  and  tohl  I  had  bro- 
ken the  hiw  ;  Major  J*arrifer  said  to  me  himself  that  I  had 
violated  the  sanctity  of  the  Sabbath  (those  were  the  words), 
and  therefore  I  must  be  punished  ;  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
"What  has  he  done  ?     I  did  not  do  as  much  as  he  has." 

"  Now  you  know,  Reed,  this  is  irregular,"  said  one  of  the 
justices.     "  You  must  not  interrupt  the  court." 

''  You  put  me  in  prison  for  a  month,  gentlemen,"  resumed 
I'eed,  paying  no  attention  to  the  injunction.  "They  cut  my 
hair  close  in  the  prison,  and  they  kept  me  to  hard  labour  for 
the  m)nth,  as  if  I  did  not  have  enouMi  of  hard  labour  out  of 
it.  My  wife  was  sick  and  disabled  at  the  time,  my  three  little 
children  are  helpless:  it  was  no  thanks  to  the  magistrates 
who  sentenced  me,  gentlemen,  or  to  Major  Parrifer,  that  they 
did  not  starve." 

"  Will  you  be  quiet,  Reed  ?  " 

"  If  I  deserved  one  month  of  prison,"  persisted  Reed,  fully 
bent  on  saying  what  he  had  to  say,  "  Major  Parrifer  must 
deserve  two  months,  for  his  offence  is  larger  than  mine.  The 
law  is  the  same  for  both  of  us,  1  suppose,     lie " 

"Reed,  if  you  say  another  word,  I  will  order  you  at  once 
from  the  room,"  interrnpted  Mr.  Brandon,  his  thin  voice 
sharp  and  determined.  "  How  dare  you  persist  in  addi'cssing 
the  bench  when  told  to  be  quiet  ?  " 

Reed  fell  back  and  said  no  more.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Bran- 
don had  a  habit  of  carrying  out  his  own  authority,  in  spite  of 
liis  nervous  health  and  (piernlons  way  of  speaking.  The  jus- 
tices spoke  a  few  words  together,  and  then  said  they  found  the 
oifcnce  proved,  and  inflicted  a  hue  on  Major  Parrifer. 

lie  dashed  the  money  down  on  the  tabh',  in  too  great  a  rago 
to  do  it  politely,  and  went  out  to  his  carriage.  No  other  case 
was  on,  that  day,  and  the  justices  got  up  and  mixed  vv'ith  the 
Cfowd.     Mr.  Brafidon,  wlio  felt  chill  in  the  hottest  summer'u 


ccmii;g  iiomk  to  him.  99 

day,  and  was  afraid  of  showers,  buttoned  on  a  lio;lit  over- 
coat. 

"Then  there  are  two  laws,  sir?"  said  Reed  to  hiin,  quite 
civilly,  but  in  a  voice  that  eve]"yb()dy  might  hear.  "When 
the  law  was  made  against  Sabbath-breaking,  those  that  made 
it  passed  one  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Reed." 

"  J^onsense,  air  ?  I  don't  see  it.  /was  put  in  pri-on  ;  Major 
Parrifcr  has  only  got  to  pay  a  bit  of  money,  which  is  of  nc 
more  account  to  him  than  dirt,  and  tliat  he  can't  feel  the  loss 
of.     And  my  offence — if  it  was  an  offence^was  less  than  iiis." 

"  Two  wrongs  don'c  make  a  right,"  said  Mr.  Brandon,  drop- 
ping his  voice  to  a  low  key.  You  ought  not  to  have  been  put 
ill  prison,  Reed  ;  had  I  been  on  the  bench  it  should  not  have 
been  done." 

"  But  it  was  done,  sir,  and  my  life  got  a  blight  on  it.  It's  on 
me  yet;  will  never  be  lifted  oft"  me." 

Mr.  Brandon  smiled  one  of  his  quiet  smiles,  and  spoke  in  a 
whisper.  "lie  has  got  it  too,  Reed,  unless  I  mistake.  He'll 
carry  that  fine  about  with  him  alwa}S.  Johnny,  are  you 
there?     Don't  go  and  repeat  wliat  you've  heard  me  say." 

Mr.  Brandon  was  right.  To  have  been  summoned  before  the 
the  bench,  where  he  had  pompously  sat  to  summon  others,  and 
for  working  on  a  Sunday  above  all  things,  to  have  been  found 
guilty  and  fined,  was  the  bitterest  potion  to  Major  Parrifer. 
The  bench  would  never  be  to  him  the  seat  it  had  been;  the 
remembrance  of  the  day  when  he  was  before  it  would,  as  Mr. 
Brandon  expressed  it,  be  carried  about  with  him  always. 

They  projected  a  visit  to  the  sea-side  at  once.  Mrs.  Parrifer, 
with  three  of  the  Misses  Parrifer,  came  dashing  up  to  people's 
houses  in  the  carriage  liner  and  louder  than  ever  ;  she  said  that 
she  had  not  been  well,  and  was  ordered  to  Aberystwithforsix 
weeks.  The  next  day  they  and  the  Major  were  off ;  and  heaps 
of  cards  were  sent  round  with  *'P.P.G."  in  their  corner.  I 
think  Ml".  Brandon  must  have  laughed  when  he  got  his. 


100  COMING    HOME   TO    HIM. 

The  winter  lioliflavs  came  round  a<]rain.  We  wei  t  he  rae  for 
Christinas,  as  usual,  and  found  GeDrge  Reed  down  with  some 
sort  of  iUness.  There's  an  ohl  sayini:;,  "  ^Vhen  the  mind's  at 
eas;e  the  bodv's  delicate''  but  Mr.  JDuifham  always  nuxintained 
that  though  that  might  apply  to  a  short  period  of  time,  in  the 
long  run  mind  and  body  sympathised  together.  George  Reed 
Lad  been  a  very  healthy  man,  and  as  free  from  care  as  most 
people  ;  this  last  year  care  and  trouble  and  mortiiication  had 
lain  on  his  mind,  and  at  the  bea-inniu";  of  winter  his  health 
broke  down.  It  was  quite  a  triumph  (in  the  matter  of  opinion) 
for  old  Duffham. 

The  illness  began  with  a  cough  and  a  low  fever,  neither 
of  which  can  labourers  afford  time  to  lie  by  for.  It  went  on 
to  greater  fever,  and  to  intiammation  on  the  chest  or  lungs,  or 
both.  There  was  no  choice  then,  and  Ileed  took  to  his  bed. 
Vov  the  most  part,  when  our  poor  peo})le  got  ill,  they  had  to 
get  well  again  without  notice  being  taken  of  them;  but  events 
had  drawn  attention  to  Keed,  making  him  into  a  conspicuous 
character.  His  illness  was  talked  of,  and  so  he  received  help. 
Ever  since  the  prison  affair  I  had  felt  sorry  for  Reed,  as  had 
Mrs.  Todhetley. 

"  I  have  had  some  nice  strong  broth  made  for  Reed,  Johnny," 
she  said  to  me  one  day  in  January  ;  "  it's  as  good  and  uourish- 
iuG:  as  beef-tea.  If  vou  want  a  walk,  vou  mii^ht  take  it  to 
liim." 

Tod  h;ul  gone  out  with  the  Squire  ;  I  felt  dull,  as  I  gener- 
ally did  without  him,  and  put  on  my  coat  and  hat.  Mrs.  Tod- 
hetley had  the  broth  put  into  a  bottle,  and  brought  it  me  wrap- 
ped ill  paper. 

"  I  would  send  him  a  drop  of  wine  as  well,  Johnny,  if  you'd 
take  care  not  to  break  the  bottles,  carrying  two." 

No  fear.  I  put  the  one  bottle  to  lodge  in  my  breast-pocket, 
and  took  the  other  in  mv  hand.  It  was  a  cold  afternoon,  the 
eky  u(!arly  of  a  steel-blue,  the  sun  bright,  the  ground  hard.  Ma- 
jor Parriferand  two  of  his  daughters,  coming  home  from  a  ride, 
vvere  ca,ntering  into  the  gates  as  I  jiassed,  their  groom  riding 


OOilTNG    HOME    TO    IITM.  101 

behind.     I  lifted  rav  hat  to  the  o-lvls,  but  thev  oi  Iv  tossed  tlieir 
heads. 

Reed  was  getting  over  the  worst  then,  and  I  found  him  sit 
tiniij  bv  the  kitchen  lire,  muffled  in  a  bed-riii);.     Mrs.  Reed  took 
the  bottles  from  me  in   the   back'us — as  they  called  the  back 
place  where  washing   and  the  like  was  done — for  Reed  waa 
sensitive,  and  did  not  like  things  to  be  sent  to  him, 

"  Please  God,  I  shall  be  at  work  next  week,"  said  Reed,  with 
a  groan  :  and  I  saw  he  knew  I  had  brought  something. 

He  had  been  saj'ing  tliac  all  along;  foui-  or  live  weeks  now. 
I  sat  down  opposite  to  him,  and  t(jok  up  the  boy,  Georgy.  The 
little  sha\'er  had  come  round  to  me,  holding  by  the  chairs. 

"  It's  ijoino'  to  be  a  hard  frost,  Reed." 

"  Is  it,  sir  ?  Out-o'-door  weather  don't  seem  to  be  of  much 
odds  to  me  now." 

"  And  a  fall  o'  some  soit's  not  far  off,  as  my  wrist  tells  me," 
put  in  Mrs.  Reed,  Years  ago  she  had  broken  her  wrist,  and 
felt  it  always  on  change  of  weather.  "  Maybe  some  snow's 
coiuiuij:." 

I  gave  Georgy  a  biscuit ;  the  two  little  girls,  who  had  been 
standing  still  against  the  press,  began  to  come  slowly  forward. 
They  guessed  there  was  a  supply  in  my  pocket.  I  had  dipped 
mv  luiud  into  the  bi&cuit-basket  at  home  before  comino;  awav. 
Thy  two  put  out  a  hand  each  without  being  told,  and  I  dropped 
a  biscuit  into  them. 

It  liad  taken  neither  time  nor  noise,  and  yet  there  was  some 
one  standing  inside  the  door  when  I  looked  up  again,  who 
must  have  come  in  stealthily;  some  one  in  a  dark  dress,  and 
a  black  and  white  plaid  shawl.  Mi-s.  Reed  looked  and  the 
childrou  looked  ;  and  tlien  Rjed  turned  his  liead  to  look. 

I  think  I  was  the  first  to  know  her;  she  had  a  thick  black 
veil  before  her  face,  and  the  room  was  not  lin^ht.  Reed's  ill- 
ness  had  left  him  thin,  causing  his  eyes  to  appear  very  large : 
they  assumed  a  sort  of  frimitened  stare. 

"  Father!  you  are  sick !  " 

Before  he  could  answer,  she  ran  across  the  brick  floor  and 


102  COMING   nOME   TO   niM. 

had  tier  arms  round  his  neck.  Cathy !  The  two  girls  were 
frio-htened  and  flow  to  their  mother:  one  bei-'an  to  scream  and 
the  other  followed  suit.  Altogether  there  was  noise  and  com- 
motion ;  (ieoi-gy,  like  a  brave  little  iiuin,  sucking  his  biscuit 
through  it  all  with  gi-eat  composui-e. 

AVhat  Keed  said  or  did,  I  had  not  noticed  ;  I  think  he  went 
to  tling  Cathy  from  him — to  avoid  suffocation  [)erhaps.  She 
burst  out  laughing  in  her  old  light  mauner,  and  took  some- 
thing out  of  the  body  of  her  gown,  under  the  shawl. 

"  No  need,  father :  I  am  as  honest  as  anybody,"  said  she. 
«  Look  at  tiiis.'' 

Reed's  hand  shook  so  that  he  could  not  open  the  paper,  or 
understand  it  at^  first  wlien  lie  had  opened  it.  Cathy  flung 
off  her  b(jnnet  and  cauii-lit  tlie  children  to  her.  Thev  bcijau 
to  know  her  then  and  ceased  their  cries.  Presently  Keed  held 
the  paper  across  to  me,  his  hand  trembling  worse  than  before, 
and  Jiis  face,  that  illness  had  left  white,  turning  ghastly  with 
emotion. 

"  Please  read  it,  sir." 

1  did  not  understand  it  at  first  cither,  but  the  sense  came  to 
me  soon.  It  was  a  certificate  of  the  marriage  of  Spencer  Ger- 
voise  Daubeney  Pai'rifer  and  Catherine  Reed.  They  had  been 
married  at  Liverpool  the  vei-y  day  after  Cathy  disappeared 
from  home ;  now  juot  a  year  ago. 

A  sound  of  sobbiuii;  broke  the  stillness.  Reed  had  fallen 
back  in  his  chair  in  a  sort  of  hysterical  fit.  Defiant,  hard, 
strong-minded  Reed  !  Put  the  man  was  three  parts  dead  fi-om 
weakness.  It  lasted  but  a  minute  or  two  ;  he  roused  himself 
as  if  ashamed,  and  swallowed  down  his  sobs. 

"  How  came  he  to  marrv  you,  Cathv  ?  " 

"Pecause  I  would  not  go  with  him  without  it,  fatlier.  We 
have  been  staying  in  Ireland." 

"  And  be  you  a  repenting  of  it  yet  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Reed,  in 
an  ungracious  tone. 

"  Pretty  near,"  answered  Cathy,  with  candour. 
.   It  appeared  that  Cathy  had  made  her  way  direct  to  Liver 


'^  COMING    HOME    TO    IIIM.  103 

pool  when  she  left  home  the  previous  January,  travel lini;-  all 
night.  There  she  met  young  Parrifer,  who  had  preceded  her 
and  made  arrangements  for  the  marriage.  They  were  mar- 
ried that  day,  and  afterwards  went  on  to  Ireland,  where  he 
had  to  join  his  regiment. 

To  hear  all  this,  sounding  like  a  page  out  of  a  romance, 
would  be  something  wonderful  for  our  quiet  place  wdien  it 
came  to  be  told.  You  meet  with  marvellous  stories  in  towns 
noM^  and  then,  but  they  ai'e  almost  uidvuown  with  us. 

"  Where's  your  husband  ?  "  asked  Eeed. 

Cathy  tossed  her  head.  "  Ah  !  Where  !  That's  what  I've 
come  home  about,"  she  answered :  and  it  struck  me  at  once 
that  something  was  wrong. 

What  occurred  next  we  only  learnt  from  hearsay.  I  said 
gnod-day  to  them,  and  came  away,  thinking  to  myself  it 
nn'ght  have  been  better  if  Cathy  had  not  man-ied  and  had 
not  left  home.  It  was  a  fancy  of  mine,  and  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  have  come  to  me,  but  it  proved  to  be  a  right 
one.  Cathy  put  on  her  bonnet  again  to  go  to  Parrifer 
Hall  :  and  the  particulars  of  her  visit  were  known  abroad 
later. 

It  was  getting  rather  dusk  when  she  approached  it ;  the  sun 
had  set,  the  i>;rev  of  evenino;  was  drawino-  ou.  Two  of  the 
Misses  Parrifer  were  at  the  window  and  saw  her  coming,  but 
Cathy  had  her  veil  down  and  they  did  not  recognise  her.  The 
actions  and  manners  and  air  of  a  lady  do  not  come  on  a  sudden 
to  one  who  has  been  bred  differently ;  and  the  Misses  Parrifer 
supposed  the  visitor  to  be  for  the  servants. 

"Like  her  impudence!"  said  Miss  Jemima.  "  Coming  to 
the  front  entrance  !  " 

For  Cathy,  whose  year's  experience  in  Ireland  had  widely 
changed  her,  had  no  notion  of  taking  up  her  old  position.  She 
meant  to  hold  her  own  ;  and  was  capable  of  doing  it,  not  being 
detirient  in  the  quality  just  ascribed  to  her  by  Miss  Jemima 
Pariifer. 

"  AVhat  next  ?"  cried  Miss  Jemima,  as  a  r'ng  and  a  knock 


104  COMING    HOME    TO    HIM. 

resounded  through  the  house,  waking  up  the  Major  :  who  had 
been  dozing  over  the  fire  amidst  his  daughters. 

The  next  was,  that  a  servant  came  to  the  room  and  told  the 
IMajor  a  hidy  wanted  him.  She  had  been  shown  into  tiie 
library. 

"  Vv^hat  name  ?  "  asked  the  Major. 

"  She  didn't  give  none,  sir.  I  asked,  but  she  said  never 
mind  tiie  name." 

"  Go  and  ask  it  again." 

The  man  went  aud  came  back.     "  It  is  Mrs.  Parrifer,  sir." 

«  Mrs.  who  ?  " 

«  Mrs.  Parrifer,  sir." 

The  Major  turned  and  stared  at  his  servant.  They  liad  no 
relatives.  Consequently  the  only  Mrs.  Pai-rifer  within  his 
knowledire  was  his  wife. 

Starino:  at  the  man  would  not  bi-ing  anv  elucidation.  Maior 
Parrifer  went  to  the  library,  and  there  saw  the  lady  standing 
at  one  side  of  tlie  fender,  holding  her  foot  to  the  fire.  She 
had  her  back  to  him,  did  not  turn,  and  so  the  Major  went 
round  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth-rug  where  he  covild  see 
her. 

"My  servant  told  me  a  Mrs.  Parrifer  wanted  me.  Did  he 
make  a  mistake  in  the  name  ?  " 

"  No  mistake  at  all,  sir,"  said  Cathy,  throwing  up  her  thick 
veil,  and  drawing  a  step  or  two  back.    "  I  am  Mrs.  Pai-rifer." 

The  ]\Iajor  i-ecognised  her  then.  Cathy  Heed  !  lie  was  a 
man  mIiosc  bluster  raiely  failed,  but  he  had  none  ready  at 
that  moment.  Three-parts  astounded,  various  perplexities  tied 
his  tongue. 

"  That  is  to  say,  Mi's.  Spencer  Parrifer,"  continued  Cathy 
"  And  I  have  come  over  from  Ireland  on  a  mission  to  you,  sir, 
from  vour  son." 

The  Maior  thourjht  that  of  all  the  audacious  women  it  had  ever 
been  his  lot  to  meet,  this  one  was  the  worst :  at  least  as  much 
as  he  could  think  anything,  foi-  his  wits  wei'e  a  little  confused 
just  then.     A  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  storm  burst  forth, 


COMING    iMOME    TO    FIIM.  105 

Cathy  was  called  various  ay;reeal)le  names,  and  ordered 
out  of  tile  room  and  the  house.  The  Major  put  up  his  hands  to 
"  Imi'rish  "  her  out — as  we  say  in  Woreestershire  by  the  cows, 
though  I  don't  think  you  would  fiud  the  woi'd  in  the  dictionary'. 
But  Cathy  stood  her  ground.  lie  then  went  screaming 
towards  tiie  door,  calling  for  the  servants  to  come  and  put  her 
forth.  Catli}',  quicker  tluiu  he,  gained  it  hi'st  and  turned  to 
face  him,  her  back  against  it.  "  You  needn't  call  me  those 
names,  Major  Pai-rifer.  Not  that  I  care — as  I  might  if  I 
det-ei'ved  them.  I  am  your  son's  wife,  and  have  been  such 
ever  since  I  left  father's  cottaire  last  vear  ;  and  mv  babv,  your 
grandson,  sir,  which  it's  seven  weeks  old  he  is,  is  now  at  the 
Hed  Lion,  a  mile  off.     I've  left  it  there  with  the  landlady.'* 

lie  could  not  put  her  out  of  the  room  unless  by  force  ;  he 
lo()!;ed  I'eady  to  kick  and  strike  her  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  it 
a  horrilde  dread  rose  up  in  iiis  heart  ihat  the  calm  words 
were  true.  Perhaps  from  the  hour  when  Reed  had  presented 
liimself  at  the  house  to  ask  for  his  dauirhier,  the  evening  of 
the  day  he  was  discharged  from  prison,  up  to  this  tiine,  Major 
Parrifer  had  never  thouMit  of  the  ij^ii-l.  It  had  been  said  iu 
Ills  ears  now  and  asjain  tliat  Reed  was  iri-ievini;  for  his 
daughter;  but  the  matter  was  alt  gather  too  c  n  emptible  for 
Major  Pai'i-ifer  to  take  note  of.  And  now  to  hear  that  the 
girl  had  been  with  his  son  all  the  while,  his  wife!  But  that 
utter  disbelief  came  to  his  aid,  the  Major  might  have  fallen 
into  a  tit  on  the  spot.  Foi-  yo;ing  Mr.  Parrifer  had  cleverly  con- 
trived that  neither  his  father  away  at  home  nor  his  friends  near 
should  kiKnv  anything  about  Catliv.  He  had  been  with  his 
regiment  in  quarters  ;  she  had  lived  privately  in  another  part 
of  the  town.  Mrs.  Reed  had  once  called  Lieutenant  Parrifer 
as  soft  as  a  tom-tit.     lie  was  a  vast  deal  softei". 

"  Woman  !  if  you  do  not  quit  my  house  with  your  shamoles 
lies,  you  shall  be  flung  out  of  it." 

"  I'll  quit  it  as  soon  as  I  have  told  you  what  I  came  over 
the  sea  to  tell.     Please  to  look  at  this  first,  sir  ? " 

Major  Parrifer  snatched  the  paper  that  she  held  out,  caj-ried 


106  COMING    HOME    TO    HIM. 

it  to  the  wiitdow,  and  put  his  glasses  across  his  nose.  It  waa 
a  c(>i)y  (jf  the  certificate  of  marriage.  His  hands  shook  as  be 
read  it,  j  ust  as  Reed's  had  shaken  a  short  while  hefore  ;  and  ho 
tore  it  passionately  in  two. 

"It  is  only  the  copy,"  said  Cathy  calm!}',  as  she  picked  up 
the  pieces.  "  Your  son — if  he  lives — is  about  to  be  tried  for 
his  life,  sir.     lie  is  in  custody  for  wilful  murder  !  " 

"  How  dare  vou  !  "  shrieked  Maior  Parrifer. 

"  It  is  what  they  have  chai-ged  him  with.  I  have  come  all 
the  way  to  tell  it  you,  sir." 

Major  Parrifer,  brought  to  his  senses  by  a  shock  of  fi-ight 
could  but  listen.  Cathy,  her  back  against  the  door  still,  gave 
him  the  heads  of  the  story. 

Young  Parrifer  was  so  soft  that  he  had  been  made  a  butt 
of  by  sundry  of  his  brother  officers.  They  nu'ght  not  have 
tolerated  him  at  all,  but  for  winnino-  his  monev.  He  drank, 
ami  ])layed  cards,  and  l)et  n}){)n  horses  ;  they  encouraged  him 
to  drink,  and  then  made  him  play  and  bet,  and  altogether  clear 
ed  him  out  :  not  of  brains,  he  had  none  to  be  cleared  of  :  but 
of  money.  Ruin  stared  him  in  the  face :  his  available  cash  had 
been  parted  with  long  ago;  his  commission  (it  was  said)  was 
mortgaged  :  how  many  promissory  notes,  bills,  lOU's  he  had 
signed  could  not  even  be  guessed  at.  In  a  quarrel  a  few  nigiits 
before,  after  a  public-house  supper,  \vhen  some  of  them  were 
the  worse  for  drink,  young  Parrifer,  who  could  goon  rare  occa- 
sions into  frighful  passions,  flung  a  carving-knife  at  one  of 
the  others,  a  lieutenant  named  Cook  ;  it  entered  a  vital  ].)art 
and  killed  him.  Mr.  Parrifer  was  arrested  by  the  police  at 
(  nee  ;  he  was  in  plain  clothes,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show 
tliat  he  was  an  otticer.  They  had  to  strap  him  down  to  carry 
him  to  prison  :  between  drink,  rage,  and  fever,  he  was  as  a 
maniac.  Tiie  next  mornint;  he  was  Ivino:  in  brain  fever,  and 
when  Cathy  left  he  had  been  put  into  a  strait-waistcoat. 

She  gave  the  heads  of  this  account  in  as  few  words  as  it  is 
written.  JNTnjor  Parrifer  stood  like  a  helpless  nan.  Taking 
one  thing  with  another,  the  blow  was  horrille.     Parents  don't 


COMING    HOME    TO    HIM.  107 

often  see  the  defects  in  their  own  chiklen,  especially  if  they  are 
only  sons;  far  from  having  thought  his  son  soft,  uniit  (as  he 
•was  nearly)  to  be  trusted  about,  the  Major  had  been  proud  of 
hiin  as  his  heir,  and  told  the  world  he  was  perfection.  Soft 
as  young  Parrifer  was,  he  had  contrived  to  keep  his  ill-doings 
from  his  father. 

Of  course  it  was  only  natural  that  the  Major's  first  relief 
should  be  abuse  of  Cathy.  He  told  her  all  that  had  hapi)ened 
to  his  son  she  was  the  cause  of,  and  called  her  a  few  more 
genteel  names  in  doing  it. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Cathy  ;  "you  are  wrong  there,  sir.  His 
marriage  with  me  was  a  little  bit  of  a  stop-gap  and  served  to 
keep  him  straight  for  a  month  or  two  ;  but  for  that,  he  would 
have  done  for  himself  before  he  has.  Do  you  think  I've  had 
a  bargain  in  him,  sir?  Ko.  Marriage  is  a  thing  that  can't  ])e 
nndoue,  Maj(^r  Pai-rifer :  but  I  wish  to  my  heart  that  I  was  at 
homo  again  in  father's  cottage,  light'-hearted  Cathy  Peed." 

The  Major  made  no  answer.     Cathy  went  on. 

"  When  the  news  was  brought  to  me  by  his  servant,  that  he 
had  killed  a  man  and  was  Ivine;  ravins;,  I  thouicht  it  time  to 
go  and  see  about  him.  They  would  not  let  me  into  the  lock- 
up house  where  he  was  lying — and  you  might  have  heard  hia 
ravings  outside  :  /  did.  I  said  I  was  his  wife;  and  then  they 
told  me  I  had  better  see  Captain  Williams.  I  went  to  head- 
quarters and  saw  Captain  Williams,  lie  seemed  tod<^ubt  me  ; 
BO  I  showed  him  the  certificate,  and  told  him  my  bab}'  was  at 
home,  turned  six  weeks  old.  lie  was  very  kind  then,  sir  ;  he 
took  me  to  see  my  husband  ;  and  he  advised  me  to  come  over 
here  at  once  and  give  you  the  particidars.  1  told  him  what 
was  the  truth — that  I  had  no  money,  and  the  lodgings  were 
owing  for.  He  said  the  lodgings  must  wait :  and  he  would 
lend  me  enough  money  for  the  journey." 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  "  gi-owled  Major  Parrifer. 

Cathv  knew  that  he  alluded  to  his  son,  thouojh  he  would  not 
speak  the  name. 

"  I  fe.iw  him,  sir  ;  I  told  you  so.     He  did  not  know  me  or  any. 


108  COMING    HOME    TO    IIIM. 

body  else  ;  Ite  was  raving  mad,  and  shaking  so  that  the  bed 
sliook  iiiidcr  him." 

"  How  is  it  that  thev  have  not  written  to  me?"  demanded 
Major  Panifer. 

"  I  don't  think  anybody  liked  to  do  it.  Captain  Williams 
said  the  best  })lan  wonld  be  for  me  to  come,  lie  asked  me  if 
I'd  like  to  hear  the  truth  of  the  past  as  regarded  my  husband  ; 
or  if  I  would  just  come  here  and  tell  you  the  bare  facts  that 
were  known,  about  his  ilhiessand  the  charge  against  him,  1 
said  I'd  pi-efer  to  hear  the  truth — that  it  couldn't  be  worse 
than  I  suspected.  TJien  he  went  on  to  the  di'inking  and  the 
gambling  and  the  debts,  just  as  I  have  repeated  to  you,  sir. 
He  was  very  gentle  ;  but  he  said  he  thought  it  would  be  mis- 
taken kindness  not  to  let  me  fully  nnderstand  the  state  of 
things.  lie  said  Mr.  Parrifer's  father,  or  some  other  friend, 
liad  better  go  over  to  Ireland." 

In  spite  of  himself,  a  groan  escaped  Major  Pai-rifer.  The 
blow  wag  the  worst  that  could  have  fallen  npon  him.  lie  had 
not  cared  much  for  his  daughters  ;  his  ambition  was  centred 
in  his  son.  Visions  of  a  sojourn  at  Dublin,  and  of  figuring 
off  at  the  Vice-Regal  Court,  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  son, 
liad  iloatcd  occasionally  in  rose-coloured  clouds  before  his 
brain,  poor  pompons  old  simpleton.  And  now — to  picture 
the  visit  he  must  set  out  upon  ere  the  night  was  over,  nearly 
drove  him  wild  with  pain.  Cathy  unlatched  the  door,  but 
waited  to  speak  again  before  she  ()i)ened  it. 

"  I'll  I'id  the  house  of  me  now  that  I  have  broke  it  to  you, 
sir.  If  you  want  me  I  shall  be  found  at  father's  cottage  ;  I 
6up[)ose  they'll  let  me  stay  there:  if  not,  you  can  hear  of  me 
at  the  place  where  I've  left  my  baby.  And  if  your  son  should 
cvci"  wake  out  of  his  delirium,  Major  Parrifer,  he  will  be  able 
to  tell  you  that  if  he  had  listened  to  me  and  heeded  me,  o 
even  only  come  to  spend  his  evenings  with  me — which  it'a 
months  since  he  did — he  would  not  have  been  in  this  pliglit 
now.  Should  they  try  him  for  murder  ;  and  nothing  can  save 
him  from  it  if  he  gets  well ;   I " 


COMING    HOME    TO    HIM.  109 

A  succession  of  sBreains  cut  short  what  Cathv  was  i:.boiit  to 
add.  In  her  surprise  slie  drew  wide  the  door,  and  was  con- 
fronted by  Miss  Jemima  Parrifer.  That  youn^^  lady,  curious 
upon  the  subject  of  the  visit  and  visitor,  had  thouo-ht  it 
well  to  put  her  ear  to  the  library  door.  To  no  effect,  how- 
ever, until  Cathy  mdatched  it.  And  then  she  heard  more 
than  she  had  thought  for. 

"Is  it  you!''''  roughly  cried  Miss  Jemima,  recognizing  her 
foi  the  ill-talked  of  Cathy  Reed,  the  daughter  of  the  Major's 
enemy.     ''  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

Cathy  did  not  answer.  She  walked  to  the  hall-door  and 
let  herself  out.     Miss  Jemima  went  on  into  the  library. 

"  Papa,  what  was  it  she  was  saying  about  Spencer,  that 
vile  girl?  "Wliat  did  she  do  here ?  Why  did  she  send  in  her 
name  as  Mrs.  Parrifer  ? " 

The  ISEajor  might  have  heard  the  questions,  or  he  might 
not;  he  didn't  respond  to  them.  Miss  Jemima,  looking 
closely  at  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  room,  saw  a  grey,  worn, 
terror-stricken  face,  that  looked  as  her  father's  had  never 
lo(jked  yet. 

"  Oh,  papa !  what  is  the  matter  ?     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

He  walked  towards  her  in  the  quietest  manner  possible, 
took  her  arm  and  pushed  her  out  at  the  door,  Not  rudely; 
softly,  as  (jne  might  do  who  is  in  a  dream. 

"  Presently,  presently,"  he  muttered  in  quite  an  altered 
voice,  low  and  timid.  And  Miss  Jemima  found  the  door 
bolted  a£rainst  her. 

It  must  have  been  an  awful  moment  with  him.  Look  on 
what  side  he  would,  there  was  no  comfort.  Spencer  Parrifer 
was  ruined  past  redemption.  lie  might  die  in  this  illness, 
and  tho?i,  what  of  his  soul  ?  Not  that  the  Major  was  given 
to  that  kind  of  reflection.  Escaping  the  illness,  he  must  be 
tried — for  his  life,  as  Cathy  had  plirased  it.  And,  escaping 
that,  if  the  miracle  were  possible,  there  remained  the  misera- 
ble debts  and  the  miserable  wife  he  had  c'.ogged  himself 
with. 


no  eoanNQ  home  to  him. 

Curious  euougli,  as  the  miserable  Major,  most  miserable  in 
that  moment,  pictured  these  things,  there  suddenly  rose  np 
before  his  mind's  eye  another  picture.  A  remembrance  of 
Reed,  who  had  stood  in  that  very  room  less  than  twelve  montha 
ago,  in  the  dim  light  of  late  night,  with  his  hair  cut  close, 
and  his  semi-threat :  "  It  will  come  home  to  you,  Major 
Parrlfery  //rwi  it  come  home  to  him?  Home  to  him  al- 
ready ?  The  drops  of  agony  broke  out  on  his  face  as  he 
asked  the  qnestion.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  tiiat  moment  of 
excitement,  so  very  like  some  of  Heaven's  own  lightning. 

One  grievous  portion  of  the  many  ills  had  perhaps  not 
fallen,  but  for  the  putting  of  Reed  in  jirison — the  marriage  ; 
and  that  one  was  more  humiliating  to  Major  Parrifer's  spirit 
than  all  the  rest.  Had  Reed  been  at  liberty,  Cathy  might 
not  have  made  her  escape  untracked,  and  the  bitter  marriage 
might,  in  that  case,  have  been  avoided. 

A  groan,  and  now  another,  broke  from  the  Major.  ITow 
it  had  come  home  to  him!  not  his  selfishness  and  his  bar- 
barity and  his  pride,  but  this  blow  of  sorrow.  Reed's  mon.'h 
of  prison,  compared  to  this,  was  a  drop  of  water  to  the  wido 
waves  of  tlie  ocean.  As  to  the  2:1  rl — Avhen  Reed  had  come 
asking  for  tidings  of  her,  it  had  seemed  to  the  Major  not  of 
the  least  jnoment  whither  slie  had  gone  or  what  ill  she  had 
entei'ed  on  :  M'as  she  not  a  connnon  lal)Ourer's  daughter,  and 
that  laboui'cr  George  Reed?  Even  then,  at  that  very  time, 
she  was  Ids  daughter-in-law,  and  his  son  the  one  to  be 
humiliated.  Major  Parrifer  ground  his  teeth,  and  only  stopped 
when  he  remeird)ered  that  something  must  be  done  about 
that  disgraceful  son. 

He  started  tliat  ni<;ht  for  Ireland.  Cathv,  affronted  at 
some  remark  made  bv  Mrs.  Reed,  took  herself  off  from  her 
father's  cottage.  She  had  a  little  money  left  yet  from  her 
journey,  and  could  spend  it. 

Spencer  Gervoise  Daubeney  Parrifer  (the  Major  and  hia 
wife  had  bestowed  upon  him  the  fine  names  in  pride  at  hie 
baptism)  died  in  prison.     lie  lived  but  a  day  after  Majoi 


COinXG   HOME  TO   Hni.  Ill 

Pan-Ifer's  arrival,  and  never  recognized  J.im.  It  of  course 
saved  the  trial,  when  he  would  probably  have  been  convicted 
of  manslaughter.  It  saved  the  payment  of  his  hundreds  \){ 
debts  too  ;  post-obits  and  all;  he  died  before  his  fatlier.  But 
it  could  not  save  exposure  ;  it  could  not  save  the  facts  from 
the  world.  Major  and  Mrs.  Parrifer,  so  to  say,  would  never 
lift  up  their  heads  again  ;  the  sun  of  their  life  had  set. 

Neither  would  Cathy  lift  hers  yet  awhile.  She  contrived 
to  quarrel  with  her  father;  the  Parrifers  never  took  the 
remotest  notice  of  her;  she  was  nearly  starved  and  her  bal)y 
too.  What  little  she  earned  was  by  hard  work  :  but  it  would 
hot  keep  her,  and  she  applied  to  the  parish.  The  parish  in 
ifu-ned  applied  to  Major  Parrifer,  and  forced  from  hiui  as 
Liuch  as  the  law  allowed,  a  few  shillings  a  week.  The  having 
l'^  apply  to  the  parish  was,  for  Cathy,  a  humiliation  never  to 
be  for'j-otten.  The  neisrhbonrs  made  their  comments. 
"  Cathv  Peed  have  brouojht  her  pigs  to  a  fine  market !  " 
So  she  had  ;  and  she  felt  it  more  than  the  loss  of  her  babj. 
who  died  soon  after.  Better  that  she  had  married  an  honest 
day-labourer :  and  Cathy  knew  it  now. 


YL 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN". 


~^  2;^ 


7^^ 


i''^ 


j)  ,^T  happened  when  we  wore  staj-ing  at  our  liouse.  Crabb 
'VJH'Mi  Cot.  In  savini'  "  we"  were  stayino- atit,  I  mean  the 
"W^     family,  for  Tod  and  I  were  at  school. 

Crabb  Cot  lay  beyond  the  vlllatje  of  Crabb.  Just 
across  the  road,  a  few  yards  hii^her  up,  was  the  large  farm  of 
Mr.  Conev  ;  and  his  house  and  ours  were  the  onlv  two  that 
stood  there.  Crabb  Cot  was  a  smaller  and  moi-e  cosy  house  than 
Dyke  Manor;  and,  when  there,  we  were  not  so  very  far  from 
Worcester :  less  than  half  way,  comparing  it  with  the  Manor. 

Crabb  was  a  large  and  straggling  parish.  ISorth  Ci-abb, 
which  was  nearest  to  us,  had  the  ciiurch  and  schools  in  it,  but 
very  few  houses.  South  Crabb,  further  off,  was  more  popu- 
lous. Nearly  a  mile  beycuid  South  Ci-abb,  there  was  a  regular 
junction  of  rails.  Lines,  crossing  each  other  in  a  most  bewil- 
dering manner,  led  off  in  all  directions ;  and  it  I'equired  no 
little  manoeuvring  to  send  the  trains  away  right  at  busy  times. 
AVhich  of  course  was  the  pointsman's  afTuir. 

The  busiest  days  had  pUice  in  snnnner,  wlion  excursion  trains 
were  in  fidl  swing:  but  they  would  comeoccasionally  at  other 
peiiods,  driving  the  South  Crabb  sta'ion  people  oft'  their  heads 
with  bother  beft^re  night. 

The  pointsman  was  Harry  Lease.  I  dare  say  yon  have  no- 
ticed how  certain  names  seem  to  belong  to  certain  places.  At 
North  Crabb  and  South  Crabb,  and  in  the  district  round  about, 
the  name  of  Lease  was  as  connnon  as  are  blackberries  in  a 
hedge  ;  and  if  the  different  Leases  had  been  cousins  in  the  days 


LEASE,   THE   POINTSMAN.  113 

gone  bv,  the  relatioiisliip  was  lost  now.  There  mii^ht  be  seveu- 
and-twentv  Leases,  in  and  ont,  but  Harrv  Lease  was  not,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  akin  to  any  of  them. 

South  Crabb  was  not  much  of  a  place  at  best.  A  ,^art  of 
it,  Ci'abb  Lane,  branching  off  towards  Mas?ock's  brick-lie] ds. 
wa^  crowded  as  a  London  street.  Poor  dwellino-s  were  liud- 
died  together,  and  children  jostled  each  other  on  the  door-steps. 
Squire  Todiietlej  said  he  remembered  it  when  it  really  was  a 
lane,  hedges  on  either  side  and  a  pond  that  was  never  dry. 
Ila  ry  Lease  live<l  in  the  last  liouse,  a  thatclied  hut  witli  three 
rooms  in  it.  He  was  a  stead v,  hardworkinic,  civil  man,  su- 
perior  to  some  of  his  neighbours,  who  were  given  to  reel  home 
at  night  and  beat  their  wives  on  ari-ival.  His  wife,  a  nice  kind 
of  wouian  to  tallc  to,  was  a  poor  manager ;  but  the  live  cliildren 
were  better  behaved  and  better  kept  than  the  other  grubbers 
in  the  gutter. 

Lease  wastlie  pointsman  at  South  Crabb  Junction,  and  aided 
also  in  the  o-eneral  business  there.  He  walked  to  his  work  at  sLx 
in  the  morning,  can-ying  his  breakfast  with  him  ;  went  home  tc 
dinner  at  twelve,  the  s'ack  part  of  the  day  at  the  station,  and 
had  his  tea  taken  to  him  at  four;  leaving  in  general  at  nine. 
Sometimes  his  wife  arrived  with  the  tea  ;  vsometimes  the  eldest 
child,  Polly,  an  intelligent  girl  of  six.  But,  one  afternoon  in 
September,  a  crew  of  niischievous  boys  from  the  brick-lielda 
espied  what  Polly  was  carrying.  They  set  upon  her.  turned 
over  the  can  of  tea  in  liofhtino;  f<jr  it,  ate  the  bread  and  butter, 
toj'e  her  pinafore  in  the  scrimmage,  and  frightened  her  nearly 
to  death.  After  that,  Lease  said  that  the  child  should  not  be 
Bent  with  the  tea :  so,  when  his  wife  C)uld  not  take  it,  he  weut 
without  tea.  Polly  and  her  father  were  uncommonly  alike, 
too  quiet  to  do  nnich  battle  with  the  world:  sensitive,  in  fact: 
thouo;h  it  sounds  odd  to  say  that. 

During  the  month  ol  November  one  of  the  busy  days  occurred 
at  South  Crabb  Juncticm.  Tliere  was  a  winter  meeting  on 
Worcester  race-course,  a  cattle  and  pig  show  in  a  town  larger 
than  AVorcester,  and  two  or  three  markets  and  other  causes  of 


114  i,EASE,    THE   POINTSMAN. 

increased  tiaffic,  all  falling:  on  the  samedav.  What  with  cat 
tie  trains,  and  oi'dinary  and  special  trains,  and  good  trains  and 
the  grnntiui;-  oC  ill-conditioned  pigs,  Lease  had  plenty  to  do 
to  keep  his  points  in  order. 

How  it  fell  out  he  nevei*  knew.  Between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock,  when  a  train  was  expected  in  on  its  way  to  Worcester, 
Lease  forgot  to  shift  the  points.  A  goods  train  had  come  in 
ten  minutes  before,  for  which  he  had  had  to  turn  the  points, 
and  he  never  turned  thou  back  again.  On  came  the  train, 
almost  as  quickly  as  though  it  had  not  to  pull  up  at  South 
Crabb  Junction.  Watson,  the  station-master,  came  out  to  be 
in  readiness. 

"  The  euo^ine  has  2:ot  her  steam  on  to-uio-ht,"  he  remarked 
to  Lease  as  he  watched  the  red  lights,  like  two  great  eyes,  come 
tearing  on.     ''  She'll  have  to  back." 

Siio  did  something  woi'se  than  l)ack.  Instead  of  slackening 
along  on  the  near  lines,  she  went  flying  off  at  a  tangent  to 
some  outer  ones  on  wliich  the  goods  train  stood,  waiting  until 
the  passenger  train  should  pass.  There  was  a  sound  from  the 
whistle,  a  great  collision,  a  noise  of  hissing  steam,  a  sense  <>f  dire 
confusion :  and  for  one  ininute  aftei'wards  a  dead  lull,  as  if 
everybodj^  and  thing  were  paralysed. 

"You  ne\er  turned  the  points!"  shrieked  the  station-maa 
ter  to  Lease. 

Lease  made  no  rejoinder.  He  hacked  against  the  wall  like 
a  helpless  man,  his  arms  stretched  out,  his  face  and  eyes  wild 
M'ith  horror.  Watson  thouixht  he  was  f>;oino'  to  have  a  lit,  and 
shook  him  roughly. 

"  YoxCve  done  it  nicely,  you  have  !  "  he  added,  as  he  flew 
off  to  the  scene  of  disaster,  from  which  the  steam  was  begin- 
ninir  to  clear  awav.     But  Lease  reached  it  befoi-e  him. 

''  (xod  forgive  me!  God  have  mercy  upon  me  !" 

A  ]K)rter,  rumiing  side  by  side  with  Lease,  hoard  hnn  say 
it.  \\\  teliing  it  afterwards  the  man  described  the  tone  as  one 
of  piteous  ao-onv. 

The  Squire  and  Mrs.  Todhetley,  who  had  been  a  few  railea 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN.  115 

off  to  spend  tho  day,  were  in  the  train  witli  Lena.  The  child 
did  nothinf^  but  cry  and  sob  ;  not  with  damage,  but  fright. 
Mr.  Coney  also  happened  to  be  in  it ;  and  Massock.  who 
owned  the  brick-tields.  They  were  not  hurt  at  all,  only  a 
little  shaken,  and  (as  the  Squire  put  it  afterwards)  mortally 
scared.  Massock,  an  undei'-bred.  man,  wlio  had  grown  rich 
by  his  bi-ick-iields,  was  more  pompous  than  a  lord.  The 
three  seized  upon  the  station-master. 

"  Now  then,  Watson,"  cried  Mr.  Coney,  "  wdiat  was  the 
cause  of  all  this  ?" 

"•  If  there  have  been  any  ne<j:liirence  here— and  I  know 
there  have — you  shall  be  transported  for  it,  Watson,  as  sure 
as  I'm  a  living  man,"  roared  Massock. 

"  I'm  afraid,  gentlemen,  that  something  was  wrong  with 
the  points,"  acknowledged  Watson,  willing  to  shift  the  blame 
from  himself,  and  too  confused  to  consider  policy.  "At  least 
that's  all  I  can  think." 

"  With  the  points  !  "  cried  Massock.  "  Them's  Ilarry  Lease's 
work.     Was  he  on  to-nio^ht  ?  " 

"Lease  is  here  as  usual,  Mr.  Massock.  I  don't  sav  this  lies 
at  his  door,"  added  Watson,  hastily.  "  The  points  might  have 
been  out  of  order  ;  or  something  else  wrong  totally  different, 
I  should  like  to  know,  for  my  part,  what  possessed  lloberts 
to  brhig  up  his  train  at  such  speed." 

Darting  in  and  out  of  the  heap  of  confusion  like  a  mad 
spirit ;  now  trying  by  his  own  eifort  to  lift  the  broken  parts 
of  carriages  off  some  sufferer,  now  carrvino:  a  i)oor  fellow 
away  to  safety,  but  always  in  the  thick  of  danger;  went 
Ilarry  Lease.  Braving  the  heat  and  steam  as  though  he  felt 
them  not,  he  flew  everywhere,  himself  and  his  lantern  alike 
shaking  with  agitation. 

"  Come  and  look  here,  Ilarry  ;  I'm  afraid  he's  dead."  said 
a  porter,  holding  his  light  down  to  a  man's  face.  Tiic  words 
arrested  Mr.  Todhetle}-,  who  was  searching  for  Lease  to  let 
off  a  little  of  his  explosive  anger.  It  was  Roberts,  the  driver 
of  the  passenger  train,  thut  lay  there,  his  face  white  and  still 


116  LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN. 

S()incho\v  the  sight  made  tlie  Squire  still,  too.  Haising 
Ilol)crts*s  head,  the  men  put  a  drop  «jf  brandy  between  his  lips^ 
and  he  moved.     Lease  broke  into  a  low  glad  ery. 

"He  is  not  dead  !  he  is  not  dead  !  " 

The  angry  I'eproaches  died  away  on  the  Squii-e's  tongue  : 
it  did  not  seem  (piite  the  time  to  speak  them.  l>y-and-by  ho 
came  upon  Lease  again.  The  man  had  halted  to  lean  against 
some  palings,  feeling  unaccountably  strange,  much  as  though 
the  world  around  were  closing  to  him. 

"  Had  YOU  been  driidcinci;  to-ni<xht,  Lease  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  quietly:  wdiich  was,  so  to  say,  a 
feather  in  the  hot  Squire's  cap.  Lease  only  shook  his  head 
by  way  of  answer.  lie  had  a  pale,  gentle  kind  of  face,  with 
browai  eyes  that  always  wore  a  sad  expression.  \\q  never 
drank,  and  the  Squii-e  knew  it. 

"  Then  how  came  you  to  neglect  the  points,  Lease,  and 
cause  this  awful  accident  \  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  Lease,  rousing  up  from  his 
lethargy,  but  speaking  like  one  in  a  dream.  "I  can't  think 
but  what  I  tui-ned  them  as  usual." 

"  You  knew  the  train  was  coming?  It  was  the  ordinai-y 
train." 

"  I  knew  it  was  coming,"  assented  Lease.  "  I  w^atcdied  it 
come  along,  standing  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Watson.  If  I  had 
not  set  the  points  right,  wliy,  I  should  have  thought  surely  of 
them  then  ;  it  stands  to  reason  I  should.  Ihit  never  such  a 
thought  came  into  my  mind,  sir.  1  waited  there,  just  as  if 
all  was  right  ;  and  I  believe  I  <^?ic/ shift  tlu'  points." 

Lease  did  not  put  this  forth  as  a  false  excuse:  he  oidy 
sp(;ke  aloud  the  problem  that  was  working  in  bis  mind.  Hav- 
ing shifted  the  points  I'cgidarly  foi-  live  years,  it  seemed  just 
impossible  that  he  could  have  neglected  it  now.  And  yet  the 
man  could  not  r<;mcinher  to  have  done  it  this  eveninij. 

*'  Yw\  t-.-iu't  call  it  to  mind  ?  "  said  Squire  Todlietley,  re- 
peating his  last  words. 

"No  I  can't,  sir:  and  no  wonder,  with  all  this  confusion 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN".  IIT 

around  me  and  the  distress  I'm  in.     I  may  be  able  to  do  so  to- 
morrow." 

'•xS'owlook  yu  hoere.  Lease,"  said  the  Sqnire,  getting  just 
a  little  cross,  "  if  you  had  put  the  points  right  you  couldn't 
fail  to  remember  it.  And  what  causes  you  to  be  in  distress, 
I'd  like  to  ask,  but  the  knowledge  that  you  diditt,  and  that 
all  this  carnage  is  owing  to  you  'i " 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  doing  things  mechanically,  sir, 
without  the  mind  being  conscious  of  it." 

"  Doing  things  wilfully,"  roared  the  S(.pure.  ''  Do  you  want 
to  tell  me  I  am  a  fool  to  my  face  ? " 

"  It  has  often  happened,  sir,  that  when  1  have  wound  up  the 
mantel-shelf  clock  at  night  in  our  sleeping-room,  I'll  not  know 
the  next  minute  whether  I've  wound  it  or  not,  and  I  have  to 
try  it  again,  or  else  ask  my  wife,"  went  on  Lease,  his  eyes  look - 
ins  straio;ht  out  in  the  darkness,  as  if  he  could  see  the  mantel- 
shelf  clock  then.  "  I  can't  think  but  what  it  must  have  been 
just  in  that  way  that  I  put  the  points  right  to-night." 

Squire  Todhetley,  in  his  anger,  which  was  growing  hot  again^ 
felt  that  he  should  like  to  give  Lease  a  sound  shaking.  He 
had  no  notion  of  such  talk  as  this. 

"  I  don't  knf)W  whether  vou  are  a  knave  or  a  fool,  Lease. 
Killing  men  and  women  and  children  ;  breaking  arms  and 
shins  and  bones;  putting  a  whole  trainful  into  mortal  fright; 
smashing  goods  and  property  and  engines  to  atf^ms  ;  turning 
the  world,  in  fact,  uj)side  down,  so  that  peo])le  don't  know 
whether  they  stand  on  their  heads  or  their  heels!  You  may 
think  you  can  do  this  with  impunity  perbaps,  but  the  law  will 
soon  teach  you  better.  I  should  not  like  to  go  to  bed  with 
human  lives  upon  my  soul." 

The  Squire  disappeared  in  a  whirlwind.  Lease — who 
Beemed  to  have  taken  a  leaf  out  of  his  own  theory,  and  listened 
mechanically — closed  his  eyes  and  put  his  head  back  against 
the  top  ledge  of  the  palings,  like  one  who  has  had  a  shock. 
lie  went  home  when  there  was  nothing  more  to  do.  Not 
down  the  frequented  highway,  but  choosing  the  field  path, 


118  LEASE,    TIIK    I'OINISMAN. 

wliere  lie  would  not  be  likely  to  meet  a  soul.  Crabb  Lane,  ac- 
customed to  put  itself  into  a  state  of  commotion  for  m^thing 
at  all,  had  got  something  at  last,  and  was  up  in  aims.  All  the 
men  employed  at  the  station  lived  in  Ciabl)  Lane.  The  wife 
and  chiidreu  of  liowen,  the  stoker  of  the  passenger  train,— 
dead — also  inliabited  a  rdom  in  that  sci'eaming  locality.  Sc 
that  when  Lease  came  in  view  of  the  place,  he  saw  a  noisy 
midtitude,  though  it  was  then  long  after  ordinary  bed-time. 
Groiij)s  stood  in  the  highway;  heads,  thrust  forth  at  upstairs 
windows,  were  sliriekiiig  remarks  across  the  street  and  back 
again.  Keeping  on  the  far  side  of  the  hedge,  Lease  got  in  by 
tl*e  uack  door  unperceived.  His  wife  was  sitting  by  the  tire, 
shaking  all  over.     She  started  up. 

"  Oh,  Harry  !    wliat  is  the  truth  of  this?" 

lie  did  not  answer.  IS'ot  in  I'ouo-h  neo-lect ;  Lease  was  as 
civil  indoors  as  out,  which  can't  be  said  of  everybody  ;  but  as  if 
he  did  not  hear  it.  The  supper — bread  and  half  a  cold  red 
herring — was  on  the  table.  Generally  he  was  hungry  enough 
for  supper,  but  he   nev^er  glanced    at  it  this  evening. 

Sitting  down,  he  looked  into  the  tire  and  remained  still, 
listening  perhaps  to  the  hubbub  outside.  Ilis  wife,  half  dead 
with  fear  and  apprehension,  could  keep  silence  no  longer,  and 
asked  again. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  then.  "  They  say  that  I  never 
turned  the  points  ;  I'm  trying  to  remember  doing  it,  Mary. 
My  senses  have  been  scared  out  of  me." 

"But  clo)H  you  remember  dcung  it?" 

He  put  ilis  hands  to  his  temples,  and  the  eyes  took  that  far- 
off,  sad  look,  often  seen  in  eyes  when  the  heait  is  troubled, 
V/itli  all  his  might  and  main,  the  man  was  trying  to  re(*all  to 
miiid  the  occurrence  which  would  not  come  into  it.  A  dread 
conviction  began  to  dawn  within  him  tl  at  it  never  woidd  or 
couhl  come;  and  Le^^se's  head  and  face  grew  net  \s\tii  cold 
di'ops  of  aiionv. 

"1  turned  the  points  for  the  down  goods  tram,"'  he  sa'vi 
presently;  "I  remember  that.     AVhen  the  goods  '.-aiiie  in,  1 


LEASK,    THE    POIXT-iM.VN.  119 

know  1  was  in  the  sii^nal  house.  Then  I  took  a  message  to 
Hoar ;  and  next  I  stepped  across  with  some  oil  for  the  engine 
of  an  up  train  that  dashed  in  ;  they  called  out  that  it  wanted 
some.  I  helped  lo  do  it,  and  t<x>k  the  oil  hack  again.  It 
would  be  then  that  I  went  to  put  the  points  right,"  he  added 
after  a  pause.     "  I  hojje  I  did." 

"  But,  llarrv,  don't  you  remember  doiup'  it  \  " 

"  No,  1  don't ;  there's  where  it  is." 

"  You  always  put  the  points  straight  at  once  after  the  train 
has  passed  % " 

"  Not  if  I'm  called  off  by  other  work.  It  ought  to  be  done. 
A  pointsman  should  stand  while  the  train  passes,  and  then 
step  off  to  right  the  points  at  once.  But  when  you  are  called 
off  half  a  dozen  ways  to  things  crying  out  to  be  done,  you 
can't  spend  the  time  in  waiting  for  the  points.  We've  never 
Iiad  a  harder  day's  work  at  the  station  than  this  has  been, 
Mary  ;  trains  in,  trains  out ;  the  place  has  hardly  been  free  a 
minute  together.  And  the  extra  telegraphing!  —  half  the 
passengei's  that  stopped  seemed  to  want  to  send  messages. 
When  six  o'clock  came  I  was  worn  out ;  done  up  ;  tit  to 
drop." 

Mrs.  Lease  gave  a  start.  An  idea  flashed  into  her  mind, 
causing  her  to  ask  mentally  whether  .yAe  could  have  had  indi- 
rectly a  hand  in  the  calamity.  For  that  had  been  one  of  tlie 
days  Avhen  her  husband  had  no  tea  taken  to  him.  She  had 
been  very  busy  M'ashing,  and  the  baby  was  sick  and  cross: 
that  had  heei'  quite  enough  to  till  incapable  Mrs.  Lease's  hands, 
witliout  bothering  about  her  husband's  tea.  And,  of  all  days 
in  the  year,  it  seemed  that  he  had,  on  this  one,  most  needed  tea. 
\'rorn  out  I  d<»ne  up  ! 

The  noise  in  Ci'abb  Lane  was  increasing,  voices  sounded 
louder,  and  Mrs.  Lease  put  her  apron  over  lier  ears.  Just 
tlien  a  suhlcn  iiiterrupti(;u  occurred.  P0II3",  supposed  to  bo 
safe  asleep  above  stairs,  burst  into  the  kitchen  in  her  night- 
gown, and  flew  into  her  father's  arms,  stubbing  and  crying. 

"  Oh  father,  is  it  true  ?— is  it  ti-ue  %  " 


120  LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN. 

"  AVliy — Polly  !  "  cried  the  man,  looking  at  licr  in  astonish- 
ment, "  M  hat's  this  ? " 

She  liid  her  face  on  his  waistcoast,  hei'  hands  clinging 
round  him.  Pvlly  had  awoke  and  Jieard  the  comnients  out- 
side.    She  was  too  nervous  and  excitable  for  Ci'abb  Lane 

"  They  are  saying  you  have  kiHed  Kitty  Bowen's  father. 
It  isn't  true,  father  !    Go  out  and  tell  them  that  it  isn't  true  !" 

ITisown  nerves  were  unstrung;  his  sti'cngthhad  gone  out  of 
liim  ;  it  only  needed  something  of  this  kind  to  finish  up  Lease  ; 
and  he  broke  into  sobs  neai'ly  as  loud  as  the  child's.  Holding 
hei'  ti)  him  with  a  tight  grasp,  tliey  cried  together.  If  Lease 
had  never  known  agony  before  in  his  life,  he  knew  it  then. 

Tlie  days  went  on.  Tliere  was  no  longer  holding-out  on 
Lease's  pui-tou  tlie  matter  of  points:  all  the  world  said  he  had 
been  guilty  of  neglecting  to  turn  them  ;  and  he  sn})posed  he 
had.  lie  acce])ted  the  fate  meekly,  without  resistance,  his 
manner  strangely  still,  like  one  who  has  been  subdued.  When 
talked  to,  he  freely  avowed  tliat  it  remained  a  puzzle  to  him 
how  he  could  have  forgotten  the  points,  and  what  nuide  him 
forget  them.  He  shrank  neither  from  i-c']:)roach  nor  abuse ; 
listeniug  patiently  to  all  who  chose  to  attack  him,  as  if  he  had 
no  moi-e  any  right  to  claim  a  ])la'ce  in  the  w(M'ld. 

He  was  not  spared.  (\)i-oncr  and  jui-y,  fi'iends  and  fi)es, 
alik'e  went  on  at  him,  painting  his  sins  in  flaring  colours,  and 
calling  him  names  to  his  face.  "  Murderer  "  was  one  of  the 
politest  of  them.  Four  had  died  in  all ;  Roberts  was  not  ex- 
pected to  live;  the  rest  were  getting  well.  There  would  have 
been  no  trouble  over  the  inquest  (held  at  the  "'  Bull,"  between 
Ci-abb  Lane  and  the  station),  it  might  have  been  finished  in  a 
day,  and  Lease  connnitted  foi*  trial,  but  that  one  of  those  who 
had  died  was  a  lawyer;  and  his  brother  (a«so  a  lawyer)  and 
other  of  his  relatives  (likewise  lawyers)  cliose  to  raise  a  com- 
motion.  Mr.  Massock  helped  tiiem.  Passengers  must  be 
examined;  rails  ti-ied  ;  the  points  tcstod  ;  every  conceivable 
obstacle  was  put  in  the  way  of  a  conclusion.  Fifteen  times 
had  the  jury  to  go  and  take  a  look  at  the  spot,  and  see  the 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN.  121 

working  of  the  points  tested.  And  so  the  inquest  was  ad- 
journed from  time  to  time,  and  might  get  finished  perhaps 
under  a  year. 

The  pul)lic  were  like  so  many  wolves,  all  howling  at  Lease; 
from  the  relatives  aforesaid  and  Brick-field  Massock,  down  to 
the  men  and  women  of  Crabb  Lane.  Lease  was  home  on 
bail,  siirrendei-ing  himself  at  every  fi'csh  meeting  of  the 
inquest.  A  few  ill-conditioned  malcontents  had  begun  to  hiss 
him  as  he  passed  in  and  out  of  Crabb  Lane. 


When  we  g-ot  home  for  the  Christmas  holidavs,  nothing  met 
us  but  tales  of  Lease's  wickedness,  in  having  sent  the  one 
train  upon  the  other.  The  Squire  grew  hot  in  talking  of  it. 
Tod,  given  to  be  contrary,  said  lie  should  like  to  have  Lease's 
own  version  of  the  affair.     A  remark  that  affronted  the  Squire. 

"  Yon  can  go  off  and  get  it  from  him,  sir.  Lease  won't 
refuse  it ;  he'd  give  it  to  the  dickens,  for  asking.  He  likes 
nothino;  better  than  to  talk  of  it." 

"  After  all,  it  was  but  a  misfortune,"  said  Tod.  "  It  was 
not  done  willino-ly." 

"  Not  done  willino-lv  !  "  stuttered  the  Pater  in  his  rage. 
"  When  I,  and  Lena,  and  her  mother  were  in  the  train,  and 
might  have  been  smashed  to  atoms  !  When  Coney,  and  Mas- 
sock  (not  that  I  like  the  fellow),  aad  scores  more  were  put  in 
jeopardy,  and  some  were  killed  ;  yes,  sir,  killed.  A  misfor- 
tune !  Johnny,  if  you  stand  there  with  a  grin  across  3'our 
mouth,  like  an  idiot,  I'll  send  you  back  to  school :  you  shall 
both  pack  off  this  very  hour.  A  misfortune,  indeed  !  I^ease 
deserves  liano-inff."' 

The  next  morning  we  came  upon  Lease  accidentally  in  the 
fields.  He  was  leaning  over  the  gate  amid  the  trees,  as  Tod 
and  I  crossed  the  rivulet  bridge — which  was  nothing  but  a 
plank.     Two  bounds,  and  we  were  up  with  him, 

"  Now  for  it.  Lease  !  "  cried  Tod.  "  Let  us  hear  a  bit  about 
the  thing.' 


122  LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN. 

AVas  iK)t  Lease  altered  !  Ilis  cheeks  were  thin  and  white, 
his  eyes  had  nothiii<i:  l)Ut  ylouni  in  theui.  Standing  up  he 
toiu-hed  his  liat  respectfully, 

"  Ay,  sir,  it  has  been  a  sad  time,"  answered  Lease,  in  a  low, 
l)atient  voice,  as  if  he  felt  worn  out  with  weariness.  ''  I  little 
thought  when  I  last  shut  you  and  Mr.  Johnny  into  the  carriage 
the  morning  yon  left,  that  misfortune  was  so  ch^se  at  hanth" 
For,  just  before  it  happened,  we  had  been  at  home  for  a  day's 
holiday. 

'•  Well,  tell  us  about  it." 

Tod  st(X)d  with  his  arm  round  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  I  sat 
down  on  an  opposite  stump.  Lease  had  very  little  to  say  ; 
nothing,  except  that  he  must  have  forgotten  to  change  the 
points. 

And  that  made  Tod  stare.  I,  watching  him,  saw  his  brow 
go  in  and  his  lips  go  out,  a  sure  sign  of  displeasure.  Tod,  like 
the  Pater,  was  hasty  by  nature.  Knowing  Lease's  good  char- 
acter, he  had  not  supposed  him  guiUy  ;  and  to  hear  the  man 
quietly  admit  tiiat  he  was,  excited  Tod's  ire. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lease?" 

"  Mean,  sir?"  returned  Lease,  meekly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  did  ?iot  attend  to  the  points? 
— that  you  just  let  one  train  run  on  to  the  other?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that  is  how  it  must  have  been.  I  didn't  believe 
it,  sir,  for  a  lon<r  while  afterwards  :  not  for  several  hours." 

"A  long  while,  that,"  said  Tod,  an  unpleasant  sound  of 
mockery  in  his  tone. 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  know  it's  not  much,  counting  by  time,"  answered 
Lease  patiently.  "  But  nobody  can  ever  picture  how  long  those 
hours  seemed  to  me.  They  were  like  years.  I  couldn't  get 
the  idea  into  me  at  all  that  I  had  not  set  the  points  as  usual  ;  it 
seemed  a  thing  unbelieval)le  ;  but,  try  as  I  would,  I  was  uiuible 
tc  call  to  mind  the  having  done  it." 

"  Well.  I  must  say  that  is  a  nice  thing  to  confess  to.  Lease  I 
And  there  was  I,  yesterday  afternoon,  taking  your  part  and 
quarrelling  with  m^  father," 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN.  12S 


"  I  ara  sorry  for  that,  sir.  I  am  not  worth  having  my  part 
taken  in  anything,  since  that  happened." 

"But  how  came  you  to  do  '\i% " 

"  It's  a  question  that  I  shall  never  he  able  to  answer,  sir. 
We  had  a  busv  dav,  were  on  the  run  from  moruinsji:  tillniolit 
and  there  was  a  ij-reat  deal  of  confusion  at  the  station :  but  it 

CD 

was  no  worse  than  mauv  a  day  that  went  before  it." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  oft,"  said  Tod.  "This  has  shut  me  up. 
I  thought  of  going  in  for  you,  Lease,  finding  everybody  else 
was  dead  against  vou.  A  misfortune  is  a  misfortune,  but 
wilful  carelessness  is  sin :  and  my  father  and  his  wife  and  my 
little  sister  were  in  the  train.     Come  alons^  Jolmnv." 

"Directly,  Tod.  1*11  catch  you  up.  I  say,  Lease,  how  will 
it  end  '{  "  I  asked,  as  Tod  went  on. 

"  It  can't  end  better  than  two  years'  imprisonment  for  me, 
sir;  and  I  suppose  it  may  end  worse.  It  is  not  that  I  think 
of." 

"  What  else,  then  ?  " 

"  Four  dead  already,  sir ;  four — and  one  soon  to  follow  them, 
making  five,"  he  answered,  his  voice  hushed  nearly  to  a  whisper. 
"  Master  Johnnv,  it  lies  on  me  alwavs,  a  dreadful  weight  never 
to  be  irot  rid  of.  When  I  was  vouno^,  I  had  a  kind  of  low 
fever,  and  used  to  see  in  my  dreams  some  dreadful  task  too 
big  to  attempt,  and  yet  I  had  to  do  it ;  and  the  weight  on  my 
mind  was  awful.  I  didn't  thiidc,  till  now,  such  a  weight  could 
fall  in  real  life.  Sleeping  or  waking,  sir,  I  see  those  four  be- 
f('i-e  me  dead.  Squire  Todhetley  told  me  that  I  had  their  lives 
on  my  soul.     And  it  is  so." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"  So  you  see,  sir,  I  don't  think  much  of  the  imprisonment ; 
if  I  did,  I  might  be  wanting  to  get  the  suspense  over.  It's  not 
an}"  term  of  imprisonment,  no,  not  though  it  were  for  life,  that 
can  wash  out  the  past.  I'd  give  my  own  life,  sir,  twice  over 
if  that  could  undo  it." 

Lease  had  his  arm  on  the  gate  as  he  sp  :)ke^  leaning  forward. 
I  could  not  help  feeling  sorr^'  for  him, 


124  LEASE,    THE    rOINTSMAN, 


''If  peoj)le  knew  how  Tin  pnuislied  \\'illilii  iny'clf,  Master 
Johnny,  thevM  perhaps  not  be  so  hai-sh.  1  liave  never  had  a 
proper  nij^ht's  rest  since  it  hajipcned,  sir.  1  have  to  <^et  up  and 
Avalk  ahout  in  the  middle  ot"  the  ni<>;ht  hecanse  I  can't  lie. 
The  sii2;ht  of  the  dawn  makes  me  sick,  and  I  say  to  myself, 
How  shall  I  get  throu<>-h  tlie  day?  When  bed-time  comes,  I 
wonder  how  1  shall  lie  till  morniii"^.  Often  1  M'ish  it  had 
pleased  God  to  take  me  before  that  day  had  ha])])en.ecL" 

"  AVhy  don't  they  get  the  inqnest  over,  Lease  ^  " 

"  There's  something  or  other  always  brought  up  to  delay  it, 
Bir.  I  don't  see  the  need  of  it.  If  it  would  bring  the  dead 
back,  -why  they  might  delay  it;  but  it  won't.  They  nn'ght  as 
well  let  it  end,  and  sentence  me,  and  have  done  with  it.  Each 
time  when  1  go  back  home  through  (.'rabb  Lane  the  men  and 
women  call  out,  AVhat,  put  off  again  !  what,  ain't  he  in  gaol 
yet !  Which  is  the  place  they  say  I  ought  to  have  been  in  all 
along." 

"  I  suppose  the  coroner  knows  you'll  not  run  away.  Lease." 

''  Everybody  knows  that,  sir." 

"  Some  would,  though,  in  your  place," 

"  I  don't  know  where  they'd  run  to,"  retui-ned  Lease.  "  They 
coiddn't  run  away  from  their  own  minds — and  that's  the  worst 
part.  Sometimes  I  wondei-  whether  I  shall  ever  get  it  off 
mine,  sir,  or  if  I  shall  have  it  on  me,  like  this,  to  the  end  of 
my  life.  The  Lord  knows  what  it  is  to  me;  nobody  else 
does." 

You  cannot  alwavs  make  things  fit  into  one  another.  I  wag 
thinking  so  as  I  left  Lease  and  went  afler  Tod.  It  was  an 
awful  carelessness  not  to  have  set  the  ])oints ;  causing  death, 
and  sorrow,  and  distress  to  many  ])eo})le.  Looking  at  it  f i-(>n-> 
their  side,  the  pointsman  was  detestable;  only  fit.  as  the 
Srjiire  said,  for  hanging.  J  hit  looking  at  it  side  by  side  with 
Lease,  seeing  his  sad  face,  and  his  sclf-rejiroach,  and  his  patient 
Bufferiuir,  it  seemed  altoirether  dift'ci'ent;  and  the  two  sides 
would  not  by  any  means  fit  in  together. 

Christmas  week,  and  the  absence  of  a  juror  wno  l:a>'  gone 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN.  125 

out  visiting,  made  another  excuse  for  putting  off  the  inquest 
to  the  next  week.  When  that  came,  the  coroner  was  iU. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  dehx}  s,  and  the  public 
Bteam  was  getting  up  in  consequence.  As  to  Lease,  he  went 
about  dazed,  like  a  man  who  is  looking  for  something  that 
he  has  lost  and  cannot  lind. 

One  day  when  the  ice  lay  in  Crabt)  Lane,  and  I  was  taking 
the  slides  on  my  way  through  it  to  join  Tod,  who  had  gone 
rabbit-shooting,  a  little  girl  ran  across  my  feet,  and  was 
knocked  down.  I  fell  too;  and  the  child  began  to  cry.  Pick- 
ing her  np,  I  saw  it  was  Polly  Lease. 

"  You  little  stupid !  why  did  you  run  into  my  path  like 
that  ? » 

"  Please,  sir,  I  didn't  see  you,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  was  running 
after  father.  M(jtlier  saw  him  in  the  field  yonder,  and  sent 
me  to  tell  him  we'd  got  a  bit  o'  fire." 

Polly  had  grazed  both  her  knees ;  they  began  to  bleed  just 
a  little,  and  she  went  into  convulsions  nearly  at  the  siglit  of 
the  blood.  I  carried  her  in.  There  was  about  a  handful  of  fire 
in  the  grate, — Pm  sure  I  could  have  put  it  into  my  two  hamis. 
The  mother  sat  on  a  low  stool,  close  into  it,  nursing  one  of 
the  children,  and  the  rest  sat  on  the  floor. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  child  as  this  in  all  my  life,  Mrs. 
Lease.  Because  she  has  hurt  her  knees  a  bit,  and  sees  a  drop 
of  blood,  she's  going  to  die  of  fright.     Look  here." 

Mrs.  Lease  put  down  the  boy  and  took  Polly,  who  w'as 
shaking  all  over  with  her  deep  low  sobs. 

"  It  was  always  so,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Lease ;  "always  since  she 
was  a  baby.  She  is  the  timorest-natured  cliild  possible. 
We  have  tried  everything;  coaxing  and  scolding  too;  but 
we  can't  get  her  out  of  it.  If  she  pricks  her  finger  her  face 
tui-ns  white." 

"I'd  be  more  of  a  woman  than  to  crv  at  nothinQ^,  if  1  were 
you,  Polly,"  said  I^  sitting  on  the  window-ledge,  while  Mrs. 
Lease  washed  the  knees  ;  which  were  hardly  damaged  at  all 
when  they  came  tc  be  looked  into.     But  Polly  only  clung  to 


126  LEASE,    THB    roiNTPM.\N. 

her  mother,  with  her  face  hidden,  and  gave  a  deep  sob  no"Vf 
and  then. 

"  Look  np,  Toll  J.     What's  this  ?  " 

I  put  it  into  lier  hand  as  I  spoke ;  a  bath  bun  that  I  had 
been  carrying  with  nie,  in  case  I  did  not  get  home  to  hmcheon. 
Polly  looked  round,  and  at  the  sight  dried  the  tears  on  her 
BwoUen  face.  You  never  saw  such  a  change  all  in  a  moment, 
or  such  eai>'er,  o-lad  little  eves  as  hers. 

"Divide  it,  mother,"  said  she.  "Leave  a  bit  for  father." 
Two  of  them  came  flocking  round  like  a  couple  of  young 
wolves ;  the  youngest  couldn't  get  up,  and  the  one  Mrs. 
Lease  had  been  nursing  stayed  on  the  floor  where  she  put 
him.  He  had  a  sickly  face,  with  great  bright  grey  eyes  aud. 
hot,  red  lips. 

"  AVhat's  the  matter  with  him,  Mrs.  Lease?" 
"AV'ith  little  Tom,  sir?     1  think  it's  a  kind  of  fever.     lie 
never  was  strong  ;  ncme  of  them  are  :  and  of  course  these  bad 
times  can  hut  tell  upon  us." 

"  Don't  forget  father,  mother,"  said  Polly.  "  Leave  the 
biggest  piece  for  father." 

"  Now  I  tell  you  all  what  it  is,"  said  I  to  the  children,  when 
Mrs.  Lease  began  to  divide  it  into  five  hundred  pieces,  "  that 
bun's  for  Polly,  because  she  has  hurt  herself:  you  shall  not 
take  any  of  it  from  her.     Give  it  to  PoUv,  Mrs.  Lease." 

Of  all  the  uj)roars  ever  heard,  those  little  cormorants  set 
up  the  worst.     Mrs.  Lease  looked  at  me. 

"They  nnist  have  a  bit,  sir:  they  must  indeed.  Polly 
wouldn't  eat  all  herself,  Master  Ludlow  ;  you  couldn't  get 
her  to." 

But  I  was  deternn'ned  Pollv  should  have  it.  It  was  throuijh 
me  she  got  hurt;  and  besides,  I  liked  her. 

"Now  just  li.'^ten,  you  little  pigs.  I'll  go  to  the  baker'a^ 
Ford's,  and  bring  you  all  a  penny  ])lum-bun  a  pie(;e,  but 
Pollv  must  have  this  one.  Thev  have  i^-ot  lots  of  currants  in 
them,  for  children  that  don't  squeal.  How  many  ire  there  of 
you?     One,  two,  three, four." 


LEASE,    THE   POINTSMAN.  127 

Catcliing  np  my  cap,  I  was  going  out  when  Airs.  Lease 
touched  me.  "  Do  you  really  mean  it,  sir  ? "  she  asked  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Mean  what  ?  That  I  am  going  to  bring  the  buns  ?  Of 
course  I  mean  it.     I'll  be  back  with  them  directly." 

"  Oh,  sir — l)ut  do  forgive  me  for  making  free  to  ask  such  a 
thing — if  you  would  but  let  it  be  a  half-quartern  loaf  instead  ?  " 

•'  A  half-quartern  loaf  !  " 

"  They've  not  had  a  bit  within  their  lips  this  day.  Master 
Ludlow,"  she  said,  catching  up  her  breath,  as  her  face,  which 
had  flushed,  turned  pale  again.  "  Last  night  I  divided  be- 
tween the  four  of  them  a  piece  of  bread  half  the  size  of  my 
hand  ;  Tom,  he  couldn't  eat." 

1  stared  for  a  minute.  "  How  is  it,  Mrs.  Lease?  can  yon 
not  ficet  enough  food  ?  " 

"  I  don't  km)W  where  we  should  get  it  from,  sir.  Lease  has 
not  broken  his  fast  since  yesterday  at  midday." 

Dame  Ford  put  the  loaf  in  pai)er  for  me,  wondering  what  on 
earth  I  wanted  with  it,  as  I  could  see  by  her  inquisitive  ej'es, 
but  not  liking  to  ask ;  and  I  carried  it  back  with  the  four  buns. 
Tliey  were  little  wolves  and  nothiniii;  else  when  thev  saw  the  food. 

"How  has  this  come  about,  Mrs.  Lease?"  I  asked,  while 
they  were  eating  the  bread  she  cut  them,  and  she  had  taken 
Tom  on  her  lap  again. 

"  Vv^hy,  sir,  it  is  eight  weeks  now,  or  hard  upon  it,  since  my 
husband  earned  anything.  They  didn't  even  pay  him  for  the 
last  week  he  was  at  work,  as  the  accident  happened  in  it. 
We  had  nothing  in  hand ;  people  with  only  eighteen  shillings  a 
week  and  five  children,  can't  save  ;  and  we  have  been  living 
on  our  things.  But  there's  nothing  left  now  to  make  money 
of — as  you  may  see  by  the  bare  room,  sir." 

"  Does  not  anybody  help  you  ?  " 

"  Help  us !  "  returned  Mrs.  Lease.  "  ^Vliy,  Master  Ludlow, 
people,  for  the  most  part,  are  so  incensed  against  my  husband, 
that  they'd  take  the  bread  out  of  oar  lips,  instead  of  putting 
a  bit  into  them.     All  their  help  goes  to  poor  Nancy  Jiowen 


123  LEASE,    THE    POr>'TSMAN, 


and  her  cliiMron  :  uiul  Lease  is  ic^ad  it  should  be  so.  AVhen  1 
carried  Tom  to  Mr,  Cole's  yesterday,  he  said  that  what  the 
child  wanted  wa:^  nourishment." 

"This  nnist  try  Lease." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  face  flushing  again,  but  speaking  very 
quietly.  •  "Taking  one  thing  with  another,  I  am  not  sure  but 
it  is  killing  him." 

xVfter  this  break,  I  did  not  care  to  go  to  the  shooting,  but 
turned  back  to  Crabb  Cot.  Mrs.  Todhetley  was  alone  in  the 
bow-windowed  parlour,  so  I  told  her  of  the  state  the  Leases 
were  in,  and  asked  if  she  woidd  not  help  them. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  it,  Johnny,"  she  said,  aftei 
a  pause.  "  If  I  were  willing,  you  know  Mi*.  Todhetley  would 
not  be.  lie  can't  foi-give  Lease  for  his  carelessness.  Every 
time  Lena  wakes  up  from  sleej)  in  a  fi'ight,  fancying  it  is  an- 
other accident,  his  anger  retu]-ns.  We  hear  her  crying  out^ 
you  know,  down  here  in  an  evening." 

"  The  carelessness  was  no  fault  of  Lease's  children  that  they 
should  suffer  for  it." 

"  Wiien  yt)u  get  older,  Johnny,  yon  will  find  that  the  conse- 
qnenees  of  people's  faults  fall  moi-c  on  others  than  on  theni- 
Belves.  It  is  verv  sad  the  Leases  should  be  in  this  state  ;  I  am 
sorr}'  for  thcni." 

"Then  you'll  help  them  a  bit,  good  mother." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  was  always  ready  to  help  any  one,  not  need- 
ing to  be  urged  ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  liked  to  bend  impli- 
citly to  the  o])inions  of  the  Squire.  Between  the  two,  she  went 
into  a  dileunua. 

"Suppose  it  were  Lena,  stai-ving  for  want  of  food  and 
warmth?"  I  said.  "Or  Hugh  si(;k  with  fe\er,  as  that  young 
Tom  is?    Those  children  have  done  no  moi'c  harm  tiuin  ours." 

Airs.  Todlietley  i)ut  her  liand  up  to  her  lace,  and  her  mile 
eyes  looked  nearly  as  sad  as  Lease's. 

"  Will  you  take  it  to  them  yourself,  Johnny,  in  a  covered  bas- 
ket, and  not  let  it  be  seeni     That  is,  make  it  vourown  doing 'i" 

«  Yes." 


LEASE,    TUE    POINTSMAN.  129 


"Go  to  the  kitchen  then,  and  ask  Molly.  Tliere  arc  some 
odds  and  ends  of  things  in  the  larder  that  M'ill  not  be  parti- 
cularly wanted.  You  see,  Johnny,  I  do  not  like  to  take  an 
active  part  in  this  ;  it  would  seein  like  opposing  the  Squire." 
Molly  was  stooping  before  the  big  tire,  basting  the  meat,  and 
in  one  of  her  vile  humours.  If  1  wanted  to  rob  thelarder,  I  must 
do  it,  she  cried  ;  it  was  my  business,  not  hers;  and  she  dashed 
the  iron  basting  spoon  across  the  table  by  way  of  chorus. 

I  gave  a  good  look  round  the  larder,  and  took  a  raised  pork 
pie  that  had  a  piece  cut  out  of  it,  and  a  leg  of  mutton  three 
parts  eaten.  On  the  shelf  were  a  dozen  mince-pies,  just  out 
of  their  pattj'-pans  ;  I  took  six  and  left  six.  M.^lly,  screwing 
her  face  round  the  kitchen  door,  caught  sight  of  them  as  they 
went  into  the  basket,  and  rushed  after  me  out  of  the  house, 
shiieking  out  for  her  mince-pies. 

The  race  went  on.  She  was  a  woman  not  to  be  daunted. 
Just  as  we  turned  round  by  the  yellow  barn,  I  first,  she  i-aving 
behind,  redder  than  a  turkey-cock,  the  Scpiire  pounced  upon 
us.  askinix  Avhat  the  uproar  meant.  Molly  told  her  tale,  I 
was  a  thi-i^f,  and  gone  off  with  the  whole  larder,  more  particu- 
larly with  Inn-  mince-pies. 

"  Open  the  basket,  Johnny,"  said  the  Squire  :  which  was  the 
one  Tud  and  I  used  when  we  went  fishing. 

N(^  sooner  was  it  dv)ne  than  Molly  marched  off  with  the  piea 
in  triumph.  The  Pater  regarded  the  pork  pie  and  the  meat 
with  a  curious  gaze. 

"  This  is  for  you  a,nd  Joe,  1  suppose.  I  should  like  to  know 
foi-  how  many  more." 

I  was  one  of  the  worst  to  conceal  things,  wlien  taken  to  like 
this,  and  he  got  it  all  out  of  me  in  no  time.  And  then  he  put 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  ordered  me  to  say  who  the  things 
were  for.     Which  1  had  to  do. 

AVell,  there  was  a  row.  He  wanted  to  know  what  I  meant 
by  being  wicked  enough  to  give  food  to  Lease.  I  said  it  was 
for  the  cliildren.  I'm  afraid  I  cried  a  little,  fori  did  not  like 
Uim  to  be  angry  with  me,  but  I  know  I  promised  not  to  eat 


130  LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN. 

any  dinner  at  home  for  three  days  if  he  woukl  let  me  lake 
the  meat.  Molly's  comments,  echoing  through  the  house,  be- 
trayed to  Mrs.  Todhetley  what  had  happened,  and  she  came 
down  the  I'oad  with  a  shawl  over  her  head.  She  told  the 
Sipaire  the  triitli  tlien  :  that  she  had  sanctioned  it.  She  said 
she  feared  the  Leases  were  cpiite  in  extremity,  and  begged  him 
to  let  the  meat  arc. 

"  J^eoff  for  this  once,  you  young  thief,"  stamped  the  Squire, 
"  but  don't  let  me  catch  you  at  anythi)ig  of  this  sort  again." 

So  the  meat  went  to  the  Leases,  and  two  loaves  that  Airs. 
Todhetley  whispered  nie  to  order  for  them  at  Ford's.  When 
I  reached  home  with  the  empty  basket,  they  were  going  in  to 
dinner.  I  took  a  book  and  stayed  in  the  parlour.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  the  Stpiire  sent  to  ask  what  I  was  doing  that  for. 

"  It's  all  right,  Thomas.     I  don't  want  any  dimier  to-day." 

Old  Tliomas  went  away  and  returned  again,  saying  the 
master  ordered  me  to  go  in.  But  I  wouldn't  do  anything  of 
the  sort.     If  he  foro-ot  the  bar^j^ain,  I  did  not. 

Out  came  the  Squire,  his  fnce  red,  his  napkin  in  his  hand, 
and  laid  hold  of  me  by  the  shoulders. 

"  Yow  obstinate  young  Turk  !  llow  dare  you  defy  me  ? 
Come  alono;." 

"  But  it  is  not  to  defy  you,  sir.  It  was  a  bargain,  you  know ; 
I  promised." 

'•  What  was  a  bargain  'i  " 

"That  I  should  not  eat  dinner  for  three  days.  Indeed  1 
meant  it." 

The  Squire's  answer  was  to  propel  me  into  the  dining-room. 
•'  Mo\'e  down,  Joe,"  he  said,  "  I'll  have  him  by  me  to-day. 
1*11  see  whether  he  is  to  starve  himself  out  of  bravado." 

"  Why,  what's  up  ?  "  asked  Tod,  as  he  went  to  a  1  wer  seat. 
"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Johnny  't '' 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  Squire,  putting  enough  mutton  on 
my  plate  for  two.     "  You  eat  that,  Mr.  Johnny." 

It  went  on  so  through  the  dinner.  Mrs.  Todhetley  gave 
me  a  big  share  of  apple  pudding;  and,  when  the  macaroni 


LEASE.    THE    POINTSMAN.  131 

came  on,  tLe  Squire  heaped  1113-  plate.  And  I  know  it  was  all 
done  to  show  he  was  not  really  angry  with  uie  for  having  ta- 
ken tlie  things. 

Mr.  Cole,  the  surgeon,  came  in  after  dinner,  and  was  told 
of  my  wickedness.  Lena  ran  up  to  me  and  said  might  she 
send  her  new  sixpence  to  the  poor  little  children  who  had  no 
bread  to  eat. 

"  What's  that  Lease  about,  that  he  does  not  go  to  work  ?  " 
asked  the  Squire,  in  a  loud  tone.  ''Letting  folks  hear  that 
his  young  ones  are  starving  !  " 

"  The  man  can't  work,"  said  Mr.  Cole.  "  lie  is  out  on  pro- 
bation, you  know,  waitinor  for  the  verdict,  and  the  sentence 
on  him  that  is  to  follow." 

"  Then  v,-hy  don't  they  return  their  verdict  and  sentence 
him  ?  "  demanded  the  Squire  in  his  hot  way. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Cole,  "  it's  what  they  ought  to  have  done 
lunt;  ai>;o." 

"  What  will  it  be  ?     Transportation  ?  " 

"  I  should  take  care  it  was  not,  if  I  were  on  the  jury.  The 
man  had  too  much  work  on  him  that  day,  and  had  had  nothing 
to  eat  or  drink  for  too  many  hours." 

'•  I  won't  hear  a  word  in  his  defence,"'  growled  the  Squij'e. 


"When  the  jurj'  met  for  the  last  time.  Lease  was  ill.  A  day  or 
two  before  that,  some  one  had  brouglit  Lease  word  that  Rob- 
erts, wlio  had  been  lingering  all  that  while  in  the  infirmary 
at  Worcester,  was  going  at  last.  Upon  which  Lease  started 
to  see  him.  It  was  not  the  day  for  visitors  at  the  infirmary, 
but  he  gained  admittance.  Roberts  was  lying  in  the  accident 
ward,  with  his  head  low  and  a  blue  look  in  his  face;  and  the 
first  thing  Lease  did,  wh(«^ie  began  to  speak,  was  to  burst 
out  crving.  The  man's  sffongth  had  gone  down  to  nothing 
and  his  spirit  was  broken  Roberts  made  out  that  he  was 
speaking  of  his  distress  at  having  been  the  cause  of  the 
calamity,  and  asking  to  be  forgiven. 


133  LEASE,    THE    POI>'rSMAN, 

"  Mate,"  said  Roberts,  pnttinij;  out  his  hand  that  Lease  niighl 
take  it,  "  I've  never  had  an  ill  thought  to  ye.  Mishaps  come 
to  all  of  us  that  have  to  do  wirh  i-ail-travt'llins; ;  us  drivers  "et 
more  ntJi-yoii  ])()iiitMiiL'n.  It  might  have  happened  to  mo  to  he 
the  cause,  just  as  well  as  to  you.  DvnTt  think  no  more  of  it." 
"  iSav  \ou  forgive  me,"  urLred  Lease,  "or  1  shall  not  know 
how  to  In-ar  it." 

"  I  forgive  thee  with  my  wliole  heart  and  soul.  I've  had  a 
B])ell  of  it  here.  Lease,  Avaiting  for  death,  knowing  it  nnist 
c(;me  to  me,  and  I've  erot  to  look  for  it  kindlv.  I  don't  tliink 
I'd  iro  back  to  the  world  now  if  I  could.  I'm  o-oing  to  a 
better.  It  seems  just  peace,  and  nothing  less.  Shake  hands, 
mate.'^ 

They  shook  hands. 

"  I  wish  ye'd  lift  my  head  a  bit,"  E.t)berts  said,  after  awhile 
"The  nurse  she  come  and  took  away  my  pillow,  thinking  j 
might  die  easier,  I  suppose :  I've  seen  her  do  it  to  others. 
Maybe  I  was  a'most  gone,  and  the  sight  of  you  woke  me  up 
again  like." 

Lease  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  put  the  man's  head  upon  his 
breast  in  the  pt)sition  that  seemed  most  easy  to  him ;  and  Hob- 
erts  died  there. 

It  was  one  of  the  worst  days  we  had  that  winter.  Lease  had 
a  night's  walk  home  of  many  miles,  the  sleet  and  the  wind  beat- 
ing at  him  all  the  way.  He  was  not  well  clad  either,  for  hia 
best  things  had  been  pawned. 

So  that  when  the  inquest  assembled  two  days  afterwards, 
Lease  did  not  appear  at  it.  He  was  in  bed  wirh  inllammatioii 
of  the  chest,  and  Mr.  Cole  told  the  coroner  that  it  would  be 
dangei'ous  to  take  him  out  of  i".  Some  of  them  called  it  brou. 
chitis  ;  bui  the  Squire  never  went  in  for  new  names,  and  nevel 
Would.  ^ 

"  I  tell  3-ou  what  it  is,  gentleinei^  broke  in  IMr.  Cole,  when 
they  were  quari-elling  whether  there  should  l)e  another  adjourn- 
ment oi- not,  "you'll  put  oft"  and  put  off,  until  Lease  slips  through 
your  fingers." 


LEASE,    THE    POI^"TSMAN.  133 

"Oh,  will  lie  though!"  blustered  old  Massock.  '  lie  liad 
better  try  at  it !     We'd  soon  fetch  him  back  again." 

"  You'd  be  clever  to  do  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

A.ny  way,  whether  it  was  this  or  not,  they  thought  better  ot 
the  adjournment,  and  gave  their  verdict.  ''  Manslaughter 
ai^iinst  Henry  Lease."  And  the  coroner  made  out  his  warrant 
of  committal  to  Worcester  county  pi'ison  :  where  Lease  would 
lie  until  the  March  assizes. 

"  1  am  nor,  sure  but  it  ought  to  have  been  returned  Wilful 
Murder,"  remarked  the  Squire,  as  he  and  the  doctor  turned 
out  of  the  Bull,  and  picked  their  the  way  over  the  slush  to- 
wards Ci'abb  Lane. 

"  It  might  make  no  difference,  o]ie  way  or  the  other," 
ansvei-ed  Mr.  Cole. 

"Make  no  difference!  What  d'ye  mean?  Murder  and 
manslaughter  are  two  opposite  crimes.  Cole,  and  punished  ac- 
cordingly. You  see,  Johnny,  what  your  friend  Lease  has 
come  to ! " 

"  What  I  meant,  Scpiire,  was  this :  that  I  don't  much  think 
Lease  will  live  to  be  tried  at  all." 

"  Not  live  !  " 

"I  fancy  not.  L'^nless  I  am  much  mistaken,  his  life  will 
have  been  claimed  by  its  Giver  long  before  March." 

The  Squire  stopped  and  looked  at  Cole.  "•  Yf  hat's  the  mat- 
ter with  him  ?  This  inflammation — that  you  went  and  testified 
to?" 

"  That  will  be  the  cause  of  death,  as  i-etnrned  to  the  registrar." 

"Why,  you  speak  just  as  if  the  man  were  dying  now, 
Cole!"' 

"  And  I  think  he  is.  Lease  has  been  very  low  in  frame  for 
along  while,"  added  Mr.  Cole  ;  "  half  clad,  and  not  a  quarter 
fed.  But  it  is  not  that,  Sqi^ii-e :  the  heart  and  spirit  aie  alike 
broken:  and  when  tliis  cold  caught  him,  he  had  no  stamina  to 
withstand  it ;  and  so  it  has  laid  hold  of  a  vital  part." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  to  my  face  that  he  will  die  of  it  ? " 
cried  the  Squire,  holding  on  by  the  middle  button  )i  old  Cole'? 


134  LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAN. 

great;  coat.     "  Xoiisense,  man !  you  must  cure  him.     "We— we 
did  not  want  him  to  die,  you  know." 

"His  life  or  liis  death,  as  it  maybe,  are  in  the  hands  of  One 
higher  than  I,  Squire." 

"  I  think  I'll  go  in  and  see  him,"  said  the  Squire,  meekly. 

Lease  was  Iving  on  a  bed  close  to  the  floor  when  we  irot  to 
the  top  of  the  creaky  stairs,  which  had  threatened  to  come  down 
with  the  S<|uire's  weight  and  awkwardness,  lie  had  dozed  off, 
and  little  Polly,  sitting  on  the  boards,  had  lier  head  u})on  hia 
arm.  Her  starting  up  awoke  Lease.  I  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  seeing  dying  people;  but  the  thought  struck  me  that  Lease 
must  be  dying.  His  pale  weary  face  wore  the  same  hue  .hat 
Jake's  had  worn  when  he  was  dying  :  if  you  have  not  fui-gotten 
him. 

"God  bless  me!"  exclaimed  the  Squire. 

Lease  looked  up  with  his  sad  eyes.  He  supposed  they  had 
come  to  tell  him  officially  ubout  the  verdict — which  had  al- 
ready reached  him  unofficially. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  I  know  it,"  he  said,  trying  to  get  up  out 
of  respect,  and  falling  back,  "  Manslaughter.  I'd  have  been 
present  if  I  could.  JMr.  Cole  knows  I  wasn't  able.  I  think 
God  is  taking  me  instead." 

"But  this  won't  do,  you  know.  Lease,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  We  don't  want  you  to  die." 

"  Well,  sir,  I'm  afraid  I  am  not  good  for  much  now.  And 
there'd  be  the  imprisonment,  and  rhcn  the  sentence,  so  that  I 
coidd  not  work  for  my  wife  and  children  for  some  long  yeai-s. 
AVlien  peojjle  come  to  know  how  I  repented  of  that  night's 
mistake,  and  that  I  have  died  of  it,  why  they'll  perhaps  be- 
friend them  and  forgive  me.  I  think  God  has  forgiven  me: 
He  is  very  merciful." 

"  I'll  send  you  in  some  port  wine  and  some  jelly  and  some 
beef-tea  and  some  blankets,  Lease,"  cried  the  Squire  quickly, 
as  if  he  felt  flurried.  "  And  Lease,  poor  fellow,  I  am  sorry 
for  having  been  so  angi-y  with  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  a.i  favours,  sir,  past  and  present.     But  for 


LEASE,    THE    POINTSMAISr.  135 

the  help  from  your  liouse  my  little  ones  would  have  starved. 
God  bless  you  all,  and  forgive  nie  !  Master  Johnny,  Gcjd  blesa 
you^ 

"You'll  rally  yet,  Lease;  take  heart,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't  think  so.  The  great  dark  load  seems  to 
have  been  lifted  oif  me,  and  lisfht  to  be  breakino;.  Don't  sob, 
Polly !  Perhaps  father  will  be  able  to  see  you  from  up  there 
as  well  as  if  he  staj'ed  here." 

The  first  thing  tlie  Squire  did  wdien  we  got  out,  was  to 
attack  Mr.  Cole,  telling  him  he  ought  not  to  have  let  Lease 
ciie.  As  he  was  in  a  way.  Cole  excused  it,  quietly  saying  it 
was  no  fault  of  his. 

"1  should  like  to  know  what  it  is  that  has  killed  him, 
then  \ " 

''  Grief,"  said  Mr.  Cole.  "  The  man  has  died  of  what  we 
call  a  broken  heart.  Hearts  don't  actually  sever,  you  know. 
Squire,  like  a  china  basin,  and  there's  always  some  ostensible 
malady  that  serves  as  a  hold  to  talk  about.  In  this  case  it 
will  be  bronchitis.  Which,  in  point  of  fact,  is  the  final  end, 
because  Lease  could  not  rallv  asjainst  it.  lie  told  me  vester 
day  that  his  heart  had  ached  so  keenly  since  jSTovember,  it 
seemed  to  have  dried  up  within  him." 

''  We  are  all  a  pack  of  hard-hearted  sinners,"  groaned  the 
Squire,  in  his  repentance.  "Johnny,  why  could  you  not  have 
found  them  out  sooner?  Where  was  the  use  of  your  doing  it 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  sii',  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

Harry  Lease  died  that  night.  And  Crabb  Lane,  in  a  fit  of 
repentance  as  sudden  as  the  Squire's,  took  the  cost  of  the 
funeral  off  the  ])arish  (giving  some  abuse  in  exchange)  and 
went  in  a  body  to  the  grave.     I  and  Tod  followed. 


VII. 


AUNT   DEAN. 

K  ^WpliMBERDALE  was  a  small  place  on  tlie  otliei-  side  oi 

4^yE.     Crabb    Ravine.       Its    rector    was   the    Rev.    Jacob 

Sw^'-p     Lewis.     Timberdale  called  liiiu  Parson  Lewis -wjien 

not  on  ceremony,     lie  had  married  a  widow,  Mrs. 

Tanertoii :  she  had  a  good  deal  of  money  and  two  boys,  and 

the  jjaiish  thought  the  new  hidy  might  be  al)(>vc  them.     But 

pile  proved  kind  and  good  ;  and  her  boys  did  not  ride  rough- 

Bhod  ovei-  the  land  oi-  break  down  the  fai-mers'  fences.     She 

died  in  three  or  four  years,  after  a  h)nor  illness. 

Timberdale  talked  about  her  will,  deeming  it  a  foolish  one. 
She  left  all  she  possessed  to  the  rector,  "in  affectionate  confi- 
dence," as  the  will  worded  it,  "knowing  he  would  do  what 
was  right  and  just  by  lier  sons."  As  Tarson  Lewis  was  an 
npright  man  with  a  conscience  of  his  own,  it  was  supposed 
lie  would  do  so;  but  Timbei'dale  considei-ed  that  for  the  boys' 
sake  she  should  have  made  it  sure  herself.  It  was  eialit 
Inmdrcd  a  year,  good  measure. 

rarsi.n  Lewis  had  a  sister,  Mrs.  Deau,  a  widow  also,  who 
]"\ed  near  LiverpooL  She  was  not  left  well  off  at  all  ;  couUl 
but  just  niake  a  living  of  it.  She  used  to  come  on  louir  visits 
to  the  parsonage,  Vvdiich  saved  her  cupboard  at  home;  but  it 
was  said  that  "Mrs.  Lewis  did  not  like  lier,  thinking  her  deceit- 
ful, and  they  did  not  get  on  very  well  to<>:ether.  Parson 
Lewis,  the  meekest  man  in  the  M'orld  and  most  easily  led,  ad- 
mitted to  his  wife  that  Rebecca  had  always  been  a  little 
given  to  scheming,  but  he  thought  her  true  at  heart. 


ATHSTT   DEAN.  137 

"Wlicn  poor  Mrs.  Lewis  was  out  of  the  way  for  good  in 
Timberdale  cliurch-}  ard,  Aunt  Dean  had  tlie  field  to  herself, 
and  came  and  stayed  as  long  as  she  pleased,  with  her  child, 
Alice.  Slie  was  a  little  woman  with  a  mild  face  and  fair 
skin,  and  had  a  sort  of  purring  manner  Mith  her.  Hardly 
speaking  above  her  breatli,  and  saying  "dear"  and  "love"  at 
every  sentence,  and  caressing  people  to  tiieir  faces,  the  rule 
was  to  fall  in  love  with  her  at  once.  The  boys,  Herbert  and 
Jack,  had  taken  to  her  without  question  from  the  first,  and 
called  her  "  Aunt."  Though  she  was  of  course  no  relation 
whatever  to  them. 

Both  the  boys  made  much  of  Alice — a  l)r!ght-eyed,  prett^y 
little  girl  with  brown  curls  and  timid,  winsome  ways. 
Herbert,  who  was  very  studious  himself,  helped  her  with 
hor  lessons:  Jack,  who  was  nearer  her  age,  but  a  few  months 
Older,  took  her  out  on  expeditions,  haymaking  and  blackberry 
ing  and  the  like,  and  would  bring  her  home  with  her  frock 
torn  and  her  knees  damaged.  He  told  her  that  brave  littlo 
girls  never  cried  with  him  ;  and  the  child  would  ignore  the 
smart  of  the  grazed  knees  and  show  herself  as  bi-ave  as  a 
martyi'.  Jack  was  so  brave  and  fearless  himself  and  made  so 
little  of  hurts,  that  she  felt  a  kind  of  shame  at  giving  way  to 
her  natuial  timidity  when  with  him.  What  Alice  liked  best 
was  to  sit  indoors  by  Herl^ert's  side  while  he  was  at  his  lessons, 
and  read  story  books  and  fairy  tales.  Jack  was  the  opposite 
of  all  that,  and  a  regulai-  renegade  in  all  kinds  of  study.  He 
Avould  have  liked  to  pitch  the  books  into  the  fire,  and  did  not 
even  care  for  fairy  tales.  They  came  often  enough  to  Ciahb 
Cot  when  we  were  there,  and  to  our  neio-hbouis  the  Conevs, 
with  whom  the  parsonage  was  intimate.  I  was  (;jdy  a  little 
fellow  at  the  time,  vears  voun^rer  than  thev  were,  but  I  rcineni- 
bcr  I  liked  Jack  better  than  Herbert.  As  did  Tod  also  for 
the  matter  of  that.  Herbert  was  too  cle\er  foi-  us,  and  he  waa 
to  be  a  parson  besides.  He  chose  the  calling  for  himself. 
More  than  once  he  was  caught  mufiled  in  the  parson's  white  sur- 
plice, preacliii  g  to  Jack  and  Alice  a  sermon  he  had  composed 


138  AUNT   DEAN. 

Aiuit  Dean  Imd  licr  plans  and  her  plots.  One  great  plot 
was  always  at  work,  yiic  made  it  into  a  dream,  and  peeped  in- 
to it  ni:i;lit  and  day.  as  if  it  were  a  kaleidosco^je  of  ricii  colonrs. 
lleibert  Tanerton  was  to  marrv  her  dauditer  and  succeed  to 
his  niotheiV  i)ropei-ty  as  eldest  son  :  Jack  must  go  adrift,  and 
earn  his  own  living.  She  considered  it  was  already  three 
parts  as  good  as  accomplished.  To  see  Herbert  and  Alice 
porini;-  over  b(«)ks  together  side  by  side  and  to  know  that  they 
had  the  same  tastes,  was  welcc^nc  to  her  as  the  siirht  of  irold. 
As  to  Jack,  with  his  roving  propensities  and  his  climbing  and 
his  daring,  she  thought  it  little  matter  if  he  came  down  a  tree 
head-foremost  some  day,  or  pitched  neck  over  heels  into  the 
depths  of  Crabb  Ravine,  and  so  threw  away  his  life.  Not 
that  she  really  wished  any  cruel  fate  for  the  boy  ;  but  she  did 
not  care  for  him  ;  and  he  might  be  terribly  in  the  Avay,  when 
her  foolish  bi-other,  the  parson,  (;amc  to  apportion  out  the 
money.  And  he  was  focjlish  in  some  things  ;  soft,  in  fact : 
she  often  said  it. 

One  Bunnner  day  when  the  fruit  was  ripe  and  the  sun 
shining  Mr.  Lewis  had  gone  into  his  study  t(^  write  his  next 
Sunday's  sermon.  He  did  not  c-et  on  very  quickly,  for  Aunt 
Dean  was  in  there  also,  and  it  disturbed  him  a  little.  She 
was  of  a  restless  habit,  everlastingly  dusting  books,  and  put- 
ting things  in  their  places  without  need. 

"Do  you  wish  to  keep  out  all  three  of  these  inkstands, 
Jacob  !  It  is  not  necessary,  I  shou.d  think.  Shall  I  put 
one  n[>  V 

The  pai-son  took  liis  eyes  off  his  sermon  to  answer.  "  I 
d'-n't  see  that  they  do  any  harm,  Rebecca.  The  children 
are  using  two  sometimes.     Do  as  you  like,  however." 

Mrs.  Dean  ])ut  one  of  the  iid-cstands  inside  the  book-case,  and 
then  looked  round  the  room  to  see  what  else  she  coidd  do,  A 
lettei"  cauirht  her  eve. 

"Jacob,  1  do  believe  you  have  never  answered  the  note  old 
Midlet  brought  this  morning!  There  it  is  ou  the  mantel- 
piece." 


AUISTT    DEAN.  l.'?9 

The  parson  siglied.  To  be  inteiTuptcd  in  this  way  he  took 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  it  teased  him  a  little. 

"I  must  see  the  chui'chwardens,  Rebecca,  before  I  answer 
it.  I  want  to  know,  you  see,  what  would  be  best  approved  of 
by  the  parish." 

'*  Just  like  you,  Jacob,"  she  caressingly  said.  "  The  parish 
must  approve  of  what  you  ajjprove." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  hastily  said  ;  '•  but  I  like  to  live  at  peace 
with  evei-ybody." 

lie  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink,  and  wrote  a  line  in  hia 
sermon.  Tlie  open  window  looked  on  the  kitchen-garden. 
Ilerbei-t  Tanerton  had  his  back  against  the  walnut-tree,  doing 
nothing.  Alice  sat  near  on  a  stool,  her  head  buried  in  a  book 
that  by  its  canvas  cover  Mrs.  Dean  knew  to  be  "  Robinson 
Crusoe."  Just  then  Jack  came  out  of  the  raspberry  bushes 
with  a  handful  of  fruit,  which  he  held  out  for  Alice  to  eat. 
"  Robinson  Crusoe"  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  how  good  they  are ! "  said  Alice.  And  the 
words  came  distinctly  to  Aunt  Dean's  ears  in  the  still  day. 

"  They  are  as  good  again  when  you  pick  them  off  the  trees 
for  yourself,"  cried  Jack.     "  Come  along  and  get  some,  Alice." 

With  the  taste  of  the  raspberries  in  her  mouth,  the  tempta- 
tion was  not  to  be  resisted;  and  she  ran  after  Jack.  Aiuil 
Dean  put  her  head  out  at  the  window. 

"Alice,  my  love,  I  camicjt  have  you  go  amidst  those  rasp- 
berry bushes ;  you  would  stain  and  tear  your  frock." 

"  I'll  take  care  of  her  frock,  aunt,"  called  back  Jack. 

Mv  darlinor  Jack,  it  cannot  be.  That  is  her  new  muslin 
fiock,  and  she  must  not  go  where  she  might  hurt  it." 

So  Alice  sat  down  again  to  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  Jack 
went  his  way  amid  the  raspberry  bushes,  or  whither  he  would. 

"Jacob,  have  you  begun  to  think  of  what  John  is  to  be?'' 
resumed  Aunt  Dean,  as  she  shut  down  the  window. 

The  parson  pushed  his  sermon  from  him  in  a  kind  of  patient 
hopelessness,  and  turned  round  on  his  chair.  "  To  be  'i — in 
»that  way,  Rebecca  'i 


'i(» 


140  AUNT    DEAN, 

•'  In  pr()fe?(sioii,"  she  answered.  "I  fancy  it  is  time  it  was 
thonght  of." 

''Do  vou  ?  I'm  sure  I  d!)n't  know.  The  other  dav  when 
something  was  being  mentioned  ahoiit  it,  .fiuik  said  lie  did  not 
cai'c  what  he  was  to  be,  provided  lie  had  no  books  to  trouble 
inn. 

''I  only  liope  you  will  not  have  trouble  with  him, -Tacf.b, 
dear,"  observed  Mrs.  Dean,  in  an  ominous  tone,  that  plainly 
intimated  she  thought  the  parson  would. 

"  lie  has  a  good  heart,  though  he  is  not  so  studious  as  his 
brother.  AVhy  have  you  shut  the  window,  Ilebecca  ?  It  is 
very  warm." 

Mrs.  Daan  did  not  say  why.  Perhaps  she  wished  to  guard 
against  the  (.ionversation  being  heard.  When  any  <|uesrioii 
not  (piite  convenient  to  answer  was  put  to  her,  she  had  a  way 
of  passing  it  by  in  silence  ;  and  the  pardon  was  too  yielding  or 
to.)  inei't  to  ask  again. 

"  Of  course,  Brother  Jacob,  you  M'ill  make  Herbert  the  lieir." 

The  parson  looke  1  surprised.  -  Why  should  you  suppose  that, 
Rebecca?  1  think  the  X\\\i  bovs  ought  to  share  and  share  alike.'' 

"My  dear  .laci'b,  how  can  you  think  so?  Your  dead  wife 
k'-fi  you  in  charge,  rememl)ei"." 

'•  That's  what  I  do  remember,  Rebecca.  She  never  gave 
me  the  slightest  hint  that  slu  sh;)ul  1  wish  a  ditference  to  be 
i>\ade:  she  was  as  fond  of  one  boy  as  of  the  othei'." 

"Jacob,  you  must  do  youi-  duty  by  the  boys,"  returned  ]\Irs. 
Dean,  with  affectionate  solenmity.  "  Herbert  must  bo  his 
mother's  Ikmi- ;  it  is  I'ight  and  [iroper  it  should  be  so  :  Jack 
must  be  trained  to  earn  his  own  livelihooil.  Jack — dear  fel- 
low ! — is,  I  fear,  of  a  roving,  rand  )m  disposition  :  were  you  to 
li'ave  any  ])ortion  of  the  money  to  him,  he  would  squander  it 
it  in  a  yeai"." 

"  Deal"  me,  I  hope  not !  But  as  to  leaving  all  to  his  brother — 
or  even  a  lai'ger  portion  than  to  Jack — 1  don't  know  that  it 
would  be  right.  A  heavy  responsibility  lies  on  me  in  tliia 
charge,  don't  you  see,  Ilebecca  \  " 


AUNT   DEAN.  14l 

"No  doubt  it  docs.  It  is  full  ei^-ht  hundred  a  year.  And 
you  must  be  putting  sometliing  by,  Jacob." 

"  I^ot  much.  I  draw  the  money  yearly,  but  expenses  seem 
to  swallow  it.  AYliat  with  the  ponies  kept  for  the  boys,  and 
the  cost  of  the  nuisters  from  AYorcester,  and  a  hundred  a  yeai 
out  of  it  that  my^  wife  desired  the  poor  old  nurse  should  have 
till  she  died,  there's  not  a  great  deal  left.  My  living  is  a  pool 
one,  you  know,  and  I  like  to  help  the  poor  freely.  When  the 
boys  go  to  the  university  it  will  be  all  wanted." 

Help  the  poor  f  i-eely  ! — just  like  him!  thought  Aunt  Dean 

"  It  would  be  waste  of  money  and  waste  of  time  to  send 
Jack  to  college.  You  should  trj  and  get  him  some  appoint- 
ment abroad,  Jacob.     In  India,  say." 

The  clergyman  opened  his  eyes  at  this,  and  said  he  should 
not  like  to  see  Jack  go  out  of  his  own  country.  Jack's  mother 
had  not  had  any  opinion  of  foreign  places.  Jack  himself  inter- 
rupted the  conversation.  lie  came  flying  u))  the  path,  put 
down  a  cabbage  leaf  of  raspberries  on  the  window-sill,  and 
flung  open  the  window  with  his  stained  lingers. 

"  Aunt  Dean,  I've  picked  these  for  you,"  he  said,  intro- 
ducing the  leaf,  his  handsome  face  and  his  good-natured  eyea 
Bpai'kling.  "  They've  never  been  so  good  as  they  are  this  year. 
Father,  yon  just  taste  them." 

Aunt  Dean  smiled  sweetlv,  and  called  him  her  darlino-  and 
Mr.  Lewis  tasted  the  raspberries. 

"  We  -were  just  talking  of  you,  Jack,"  cried  the  unsophisti- 
cated man — and  Mrs.  Dean  knitted  her  brows  slightly.  "  Your 
aunt  savs  it  is  time  vou  beo-an  to  think  of  some  profession.'* 

"  What,  yet  awhile  ?  "  returned  Jack. 

"  Tjuit  you  may  be  suitably  educated  for  it,  my  boy." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  something  that  won't  want  education." 
oried  Jack,  leaning  his  arms  on  the  window-sill,  and  jumping 
up  and  down.  "  I  think  I'd  rather  be  a  farmer  than  anything, 
father." 

The  parson  drew  a  long  face.  It  had  never  entered  into  lus 
calculation. 


142  AUNT   DEAN. 

"  I  fear  that  would  not  do,  Jack,  I  should  like  you  t<! 
choose  something  higher  thiin  tluit  ;  some  good  profession  by 
which  von  mav  i-ise  in  the  world.  Herbert  will  go  into  the 
Church:  what  should  yoli  say  to  tlie  Bar?" 

Jack's  j  umping  ceased  all  at  once.  "  What,  to  be  a  barrister, 
father  ?  Like  those  be-wio;<;ed  fellows  that  come  circuit  twico 
a  year  to  Worcester  ? " 

"  Like  that,  Jack." 

"  But  they  have  to  study  all  their  lives  for  it,  father  ;  and 
read  up  millions  of  Ijooks  before  they  can  pass !  I  couldn't  do 
it ;  I  couldn't  indeed." 

"•  What  do  vou  think  of  beinc:  a  high-class  lawyer,  then?  I 
might  phice  3'ou  with  some  good  firm,  such  as ^" 

"  Don't,  there's  a  dear  father!"  interrupted  Jack,  all  the 
sunshine  leavino^  his  face.  ''  I'm  afraid  if  I  wei'e  at  a  desk  I 
should  kick  it  over  without  knowing  it:  I  must  be  ruiming 
out  and  about. — Are  they  all  gone,  xVunt  Dean?  Give  me  the 
leaf  to  throw  away,  and  I'll  pick  you  some  more." 

The  years  went  on.  Jack  was  fifteen  ;  Herbert  eighteen 
and  at  Oxford :  the  advanced  scholar  had  gone  to  college  early. 
Aunt  Dean  spent  quite  half  her  time  at  Timberdale,  from 
Easter  till  autumn,  and  the  parson  never  rose  against  it.  She 
let  her  house  durins:  her  absence  :  it  was  situated  on  the  banka 
of  the  river  a  little  way  from  Liverpool,  near  the  place  they 
call  New  Briij-hton  now.  It  mi<>;ht  have  been  called  New 
Brighton  then  for  all  [  know.  One  family  always  took  th»^ 
house  for  the  summer  months,  glad  to  ixet  out  of  hot  Liver 
pool. 

As  to  Jack,  nothing  had  been  decided  in  re':i:ard  to  hip 
future,  for  opinions  about  it  differed.  A  little  Latin  and  a 
little  history  and  a  great  deal  of  geography  (for  lie  liked  that) 
had  been  drilled  into  him  :  and  there  his  education  ended. 
But  he  was  the  best  climber  and  walker  and  leaper,  and 
withal  the  best-hearted  voun.g  fellow  that  Timberdale  could 
boast:  and  he  knew  about  land  thoroughly,  and  possessed  a 
great  stock  of  general  and  useful  practical  information.   Many 


AUNT   DEA??.  143 

a  day  when  some  of  the  poorer  farmers  were  in  a  desperate 
hurrv  to  get  in  their  hay  or  carry  tlieir  wlieat  oa  aceonnt  of 
threatening  weather,  has  Jack  Tanerton  turned  ont  to  help, 
and  toiled  as  hard  and  as  loncj:  as  any  of  the  labourers.     He 

CD  f 

was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  everybody,  rich  and  poor. 

Mrs.  Dean  had  worked  on  always  to  accomplish  her  ends. 
Slowly  and  imperceptibly,  but  surely:  Herbert  must  be  the 
heir;  John  must  shift  for  hiinself.  The  parson  had  had  thia 
dinned  into  him  so  often  now,  in  her  apparently  frank  and 
reasonino:  wav,  that  he  bei»;an  to  lend  an  ear.  What  with  his 
stri(;t  sense  of  innate  justice,  and  his  habit  of  yielding  to  his 
sister's  views,  he  felt  mostly  in  a  kind  of  pickle,  13 nt  Mrs. 
Dean  had  come  over  this  time  determined  to  get  something 
settled,  one  way  or  the  other. 

She  arrived  before  Easter  this  year.  The  interminable 
Jack  (as  she  often  called  him  in  heart)  was  at  home  ;  Ilei'bert 
not.  Jack  and  Mice  did  not  seem  to  miss  him,  but  went  out 
on  their  rambles  together  as  they  did  when  children.  The 
morning  before  Herbert  was  expected,  a  letter  came  fi'om 
him  to  his  stepfather,  saying  he  had  been  invited  by  a  fellow- 
student  to  spend  the  Easter  holidays  at  his  home  near  London 
and  had  a^-cepted  it. 

Mr.  Lewis  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  in  his  easy  way ; 
but  it  disa<2:reed  with  Aunt  Dean.  She  said  all  manner  of 
things  to  the  parson,  and  incited  him  to  write  for  Herbert  to 
return  at  once.  Herbert's  answer  to  this  was  a  courteous  in- 
timation that  he  could  not  alter  his  plans  ;  and  he  hoped  his 
fatliei',  on  consideration,  would  fail  to  see  anj^  good  reason 
why  he  should.     Herbert  Tanerton  had  a  will  of  his  own. 

''  Neither  do  I  see  any  reason,  good  or  bad,  why  he  should 
not  pay  the  visit,  Rebecca,"  confessed  the  rector.  "  I'm 
afraid  it  was  foolish  of  me  to  object  at  all.  Perhaps  I  have 
not  the  right  to  deny  him,  either,  if  I  wished  it.  He  is  get- 
ting on  for  nineteen,  and  I  am  not  his  own  father." 

So  Aunt  Dean  had  to  make  the  best  and  the  worst  of  it  j 
but  she  felt  as  cross  as  two  sticks. 


144  AUNT   DEAN. 

One  day  wlieii  the  parson  was  abroad  on  ]iarirfh  niatteis, 
and  the  Rectoi\v  euipt\',  siie  went,  out  for  a  stroll,  and  reached 
the  lii;4'l)  .-tee[>  Imnk  where  the  primroses  and  violets  ii:;i-e\v. 
Lockiiiii;  oNcr,  she  saw  Jack  and  Alice  seated  below  ;  Jack's 
arm  round  lu'r  ^vaist. 

"  Vou  are  to  be  ray  wife,  you  know,  Alice,  when  we  are 
growr.  n]-.     Mind  that." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  Aunt  Dean  eei'tainly  thought 
she  heard  the  sound  of  a  kiss.  Peeping  over  again,  she  saw 
Jack  takinu^  another. 

"  And  if  you  don't  object  to  ray  being  a  farmer,  Alice,  I 
sliould  like  it  best  of  all.  We'll  keep  two  jolly  ponies  and 
ride  about  together.     AVon't  it  be  good?" 

''  I  don't  object  to  farming,  Jack.  Anything  you  like.  A 
successful  farmer's  home  is  a  very  pleasant  one." 

Aunt  Dean  drew  away  with  noiseless  steps.  She  was  too 
calm  and  callous  a  woman  to  turn  white;  but  she  did  turn 
ann-i'V,  and  rei>:i;^tered  a  vow  in  her  heart.  That  presu'.nincr 
upstart  Jack!  They  were  but  two  little  fools,  it's  true;  no 
better  than  children;  but  the  nonsense  must  be  stopped  iu 
time. 

Herbert  went  back  to  Oxfoi'd  without  coining  lioine. 
Alice,  to  her  own  iuliuite  astonishment,  was  despatched  to 
school  till  midsunnner.  The  parson  and  his  sister  and  Jack 
were  left  alone  ;  and  Aunt  Dean,  with  her  soft  smooth  man- 
ner and  her  false  expressions  of  endearment,  i-uled  all  things  ; 
her  brother's  better  nature  amid  the  rest. 

Jack  was  asked  what  he  would  be.  A  farmer,  he  answered. 
But  Aunt  Dean  had  somehow  caught  up  the  ra(.3t  bitter 
notions  possible  against  farming  in  general  ;  and  Mr.  Lewis, 
r.ot  much  liking  the  thing  himself,  and  yielding  to  the  under- 
current ever  gently  flowing,  told  Jack  he  raust  flx  on  some- 
thing else. 

"  There's  nothing  I  shall  do  so  well  at  as  farming,  father," 
remonstrated  Jack.  "  You  can  put  me  for  three  or  four  years 
to  some  good  agriculturist,  and  I'll  be  bound  at  the  end  of  the 


AUNT   DEAN.  145 

i  \me  I  should  be  fit  to  manage  the  largest  and  Lest  farm  in 
the  country  Why,  I  am  a  better  farmer  now  than  some  of 
them  are." 

"  Jack,  my  boy,  you  must  not  be  self-willed.  I  cannot  let 
yon  be  a  farmer." 

"  The.i  send  me  to  sea,  father,  and  make  a  sailor  of  me," 
returned  Jack,  with  undisturbed  good  humour. 

But  this  startled  the  parson.  He  liked  Jack,  and  he  had  a 
horror  of  the  sea.  "  Not  that,  Jack,  my  boy.  Anything  but 
that." 

"  I'm  not  sure  but  I  should  like  tlie  sea  better  than  farming," 
went  on  Jack,  the  idea  full  in  his  head.  ^'  Aunt  Dean  lent 
me  '  Peter  Simple '  one  day.  I  know  I  should  make  a  first- 
rate  sailor." 

"  Jack,  don't  talk  so.  Tour  poor  mother  would  not  have 
liked  it,  and  I  don't  like  it ;  and  I  shall  never  let  you  go." 

"  Some  fellows  run  away  to  sea,"  said  Jack,  laughing. 

The  parson  felt  as  though  a  bucket  of  cold  water  was  thrown 
down  his  back.     Did  Jack  mean  that  as  a  threat  ? 

"John,"  said  he,  in  as  solemn  a  way  as  he  had  ever  spoken, 
"  disobedience  to  parents  sometimes  brings  a  curse  with  it. 
You  must  promise  me  that  you  will  never  go  to  sea." 

"I'll  not  promise  tliat,  off  hand,"  said  Jack.  "  But  I  will 
promise  never  to  go  without  your  consent.  Thi  nk  it  over  well, 
father  ;  tliere's  no  hurry." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Mr.  Lewis's  tongue  to  withdraw  his 
objection  to  the  farming  scheme  there  and  then:  in  compari- 
son with  the  other  it  looked  quite  fair  and  bright.  But  he 
thought  he  might  compi-omise  his  judgment  to  yield  thus 
instantly  :  and,  as  easy  Jack  said,  there  was  no  hurry. 

So  Jack  went  rushing  out  of  doors  again  to  the  uttermost 
bounds  of  the  parish,  and  the  parson  was  left  to  Aunt  Dean. 
When  he  told  her  he  meant  to  let  Jack  be  a  farmer,  she  laughed 
till  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  begged  him  to  leave 
matters  to  her.  She  knew  how  to  manage  boys,  without  ap- 
pearing directly  to  cross  them  :  there  was  this  kind  of  trouble 


146  AUNT   DEAN. 

with  most  boN'S,  she  had  ol>served,  before  they  settled  ^latis- 
factorily  in  life   but  it  all  came  rig-ht  in  the  end. 

So  the  parson  said  no  more  about  farming :  but  Jack  talked 
a  great  deal  about  the  sea.  Mr.  Lewis  went  over  in  his  gig  to 
AVorcester,  and  bought  a  book  lie  had  heard  of,  "  Two  Years 
before  the  Mast."  lie  wrote  Jack's  name  in  it  and  gave  it 
hinj,  hoping  its  contents  might  serve  to  sicken  him  of  the  sea. 

The  next  morning  the  book  was  missing.  Jack  looked  high 
and  low  for  it,  but  it  was  goue.  He  had  left  it  on  the  sitting- 
room  table  when  he  went  up  to  bed,  and  it  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared during  the  night.  The  servants  had  not  seen  it,  and 
declared  it  was  not  on  the  table  in  the  morning. 

"  It  could  not — I  suppose — have  been  the  cat,"  observed 
Aunt  Dean,  in  a  doubtful  manner,  her  eyes  full  of  wonder  as 
to  where  the  book  could  have  got  to.  ''  I  have  heard  of  cats 
doing  strange  things." 

"  I  don't  think  the  cat  would  make  away  with  a  book  of 
that  size,  Rebecca,"  said  the  parson.  And  if  he  had  not  been 
the  least  suspicious  parson  in  all  the  Worcester  Diocese,  he 
miffht  have  asked  his  sister  whether  she  had  been  the  cat,  and 
secured  the  book  lest  it  should  serve  to  dissipate  Jack's  fancy 
for  the  sea. 

The  next  thing  she  did  was  to  carry  Jack  off  to  Liverpool. 
The  parson  objected  at  first :  Li\'erpool  was  a  seaport  town, 
and  might  put  Jack  more  in  mind  of  the  sea  than  ever.  Aunt 
Dean  replied  that  she  meant  him  to  see  the  worst  sides  of  a 
sea  life,  the  dirty  boats  in  the  Mersey,  the  wretchedness  of  the 
crews,  and  the  real  discomfort  and  misery  of  a  sailor's  life. 
That  would  cure  him,  she  said  :  what  he  had  got  in  his  head 
now  was  the  romance  picked  up  from  books.  The  parst)n 
tin  Might  there  M'as  reason  in  this,  and  yielded.  He  was 
dreadfully  anxious  about  Jack. 

She  went  sti-aight  to  her  house  near  New  Brighton,  Jack 
with  her,  and  a  substantial  sum  in  her  pocket  from  the  rector 
to  i)ay  Jack's  keep.  The  old  servant,  Peggy,  who  took  care  of 
it,  was  thunderstruck  to  sec  her  mistress  come  in.     It  was  not 


AUNT   DEAN.  147 

yet  occupied  by  tlie  Liverpool  people,  and  Mrs.  Dean  sent 
them  word  they  could  not  have  it  tliis  j^ear :  at  least  not  for 
the  present.  While  she  got  matters  straight,  she  supplied  Jack 
with  all  Captain  Marryat's  novels  to  read.  The  house  looked 
on  the  river,  and  Jack  would  watch  the  line  gi-and  vessels 
starting  on  their  long  voyages,  their  trim  white  sails  glowing 
fair  in  the  sunshine,  or  hear  the  joyous  shouts  from  the  sailors 
of  a  homeward  bound,  ship  as  Liverpool  hove  in  view  ;  and  he 
grew  to  think  there  was  no  sight  so  pleasant  to  the  eye  as 
these  beauteous  ships ;  no  fate  so  desirable  as  to  sail  in  them. 

But  Aunt  Dean  had  entirely  changed  her  tactics.  Instead 
of  sending  Jack  on  to  the  dirtiest  and  worst  manao-ed  boats  iu 
the  docks,  where  the  living  was  hard  and  the  sailors  were  dis- 
contented, she  allowed  him  to  roam  at  will  on  the  finest  ships, 
and  make  acquaintance  with  their  enthusiastic  young  officers, 
especially  with  those  who  were  going  to  sea  for  the  first  time 
with  just  such  notions  as  Jack's.  Before  Midsummer  came, 
Jack  Tanerton  had  got  to  thiuk  that  he  could  never  be  happy 
on  land. 

There  was  a  new  ship  just  launched,  the  Hose  of  Delhi ;  a 
magnificent  vessel.  Jack  took  rare  interest  in  her.  He  was 
for  ever  on  board  ;  was  for  ever  saying  to  her  owners — friends 
of  Aunt  Dean's,  to  whom  she  had  introduced  him — how  much 
he  should  like  to  sail  in  her.  The  owners  thought  it  M'ould 
be  an  advantageous  thing  to  get  so  active,  open,  and  ready  a 
lad  into  their  service,  although  he  was  somewhat  old  for 
entering,  and  they  offered  to  article  him  for  f(jur  years  as 
"  midshipman  "  on  the  Rose  of  Delhi.  Jack  went  home  with 
his  tale,  his  eyes  glowing;  and  Aunt  Dean  neither  checked 
him  nor  helped  him. 

'Not  then.  Later,  when  the  ship  was  all  but  ready  to  sail, 
she  told  Jack  she  washed  lier  hands  of  it,  and  rocountiended 
him  to  write  and  ask  his  stepfather  whether  he  might  sail  in 
her,  or  not. 

Now  Jack  was  no  letter  writer  ;  neither,  truth  to  tell,  was 
the  parson.     He  had  not  once  written  home ;  b  it  had  con- 


148  AUNT    DEAN. 

tented  himself  with  sendiuf;  affectionate  messa^eB  in  Aunt 
Dean's  letters.  Consequently,  Mr.  Lewis  only  knew  R'liat 
Aunt  Dean  had  chosen  to  tell  him,  and  had  no  idea  that  Jack 
was  getting  the  real  sea  fever.  But  at  the  suggestion  Jack 
sat  down  now,  and  wrote  a  long  letter. 

Its  purport  was  this.  That  he  was  longing  and  hoping  to 
go  to  sea;  was  sure  he  shfudd  never  like  anything  else  in  the 
world  so  well ;  that  the  Rose  of  Delhi,  Captain  Druce,  was 
the  most  magnificent  ship  ever  launched  ;  that  the  owners 
bore  the  best  character  in  Liverpool  for  liberality,  and  Captain 
Druce  for  kindness  to  his  middies ;  and  that  he  hoped,  oh  he 
hoped,  his  father  would  let  him  go ;  but  that  if  he  still  refused, 
he  (Jack)  would  do  his  best  to  be  content  to  stay  on  shore, 
for  he  did  not  forget  his  promise  of  never  sailing  without 
consent. 

"  Would  yon  like  to  see  the  letter.  Aunt  Dean,  before  I  shut 
it  up  ?  "  he  asked. 

Aunt  Dean,  who  had  been  sitting  by,  took  the  letter,  and 
privately  thought  it  was  as  good  a  letter  and  as  much  to  the 
purpose  as  the  best  scribe  in  the  land  could  have  written. 
She  disliked  it,  for  ali  that. 

"Jack,  dear,  I  think  you  had  better  put  a  postscript,"  she 
paid.  "  Your  father  detests  writing,  as  you  know.  Tell  him 
that  if  he  consents  he  need  not  write  any  answer:  you  will 
know  what  it  means, — that  you  may  go, — and  it  will  save  him 
trouble." 

"  Jhit,  Aunt  Dean,  I  should  like  him  to  wish  me  good-bye 
and  G()d-s})eed." 

"  He  will  be  sure  to  do  the  one  in  his  heart  and  the  other 
in  his  prayers,  my  boy.     Write  your  postscript." 

Ja(tk  did  as  he  was  bid :  he  was  as  docile  as  his  stepfather. 
Exactly  as  Mrs,  Dean  suggested,  wrote  he :  and  he  added 
that  if  no  answer  arrived  within  two  posts,  he  should  take  it 
for  granted  that  he  was  to  go,  and  should  see  about  his  outfit. 
There  was  no  *:ime  to  lose,  for  the  ship  would  sail  in  three  o/ 
lour  days. 


ATJNT   DEAN.  149 

"  I  win  post  it  for  you,  Jack,"  she  said,  when  it  was  ready. 
"I  am  going  out." 

"  Thank  yon,  Aunt  Dean,  but  I  can  post  it  myself.  I'd 
rather ;  and  then  I  shall  know  it's  off.  Oh,  sha'n't  I  be  on 
thorns  till  the  time  for  an  answer  comes  and  goes ! " 

He  snatched  his  cap  and  vaulted  off  with  the  letter  before 
he  could  be  stopped.  Aunt  Dean  had  a  curious  look  on  her 
face,  and  sat  biting  her  lips.  She  had  not  intended  the  letter 
to  go. 

The  first  post  that  could  possibly  bring  an  answer  brought 
one.  Jack  was  not  at  home.  Aunt  Dean  had  sent  him  out 
on  an  early  commission,  watched  for  the  postman,  and  has- 
tened to  the  door  herself  to  receive  what  he  might  bring. 
Tie  broucjht  two  letters — as  it  chanced.  One  from  the  Hector 
of  Timberdale ;  one  from  Alice  Dean.  Mrs.  Dean  locked  the 
one  up  in  her  private  drawer  above  stairs :  the  other  she  left 
on  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Peggy  says  the  postman  has  been  here,  aunt !  "  cried  the 
boy,  all  excitement,  as  he  ran  in. 

"  Yes,  dear.     lie  brought  a  letter  from  Alice." 

"And  nothing  from  Timberdale?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  could  quite  expect  it  by 
this  post.  Jack.  Your  father  might  like  to  take  a  little 
time  for  consideration.  You  may  read  Alice's  letter,  my 
boy :  she  comes  home  this  day  week  for  the  summer  holi- 
days." 

"Not  till  this  day  week!"  cried  Jack,  in  frightful  disap- 
pointment. "  Why,  I  shall  have  sailed  then,  if  I  go.  Aunt 
Dean !    I  shall  not  see  her." 

"  Well,  dear,  you  will  see  her  when  you  come  home." 

Aunt  Dean  had  no  more  commissions  for  Jack  after  that, 
and  each  time  the  postman  was  expected,  he  posted  himself 
outside  the  door  to  wait  for  him.  The  man  brought  no  other 
lettei".  The  reasonable  time  for  an  answer  went  by,  and  there 
came  none. 

"  Aunt  Dean,  I  suppose  I  may  get  my  outfit  now,"  said 


150  AITNT   DEAN. 

Jack,  only  half  satisfied.     "But  I  wish  I  had  told  him  to 
write  in  any  case  :  just  a  line." 

"  Accoi'ding  to  what  you  said,  you  know,  Jack,  silence  must 
bo  taken  to  give  consent." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I'd  rather  have  had  a  word,  and  made 
certain.  I  wish  there  was  time  for  me  just  to  run  over  to 
Timberdale  and  see  him  !  " 

''  But  there's  not,  Jack,  more's  the  pity :  you  would  lose  the 
ship.  Get  a  piece  of  paper  and  make  out  a  list  of  the  articles 
the  second  mate  told  you  you  would  want." 

The  Rose  of  Delhi  sailed  out  of  port  for  Calcutta,  and  John 
Tanerton  with  her,  having  signed  articles  to  serve  in  her  for 
four  years.  The  night  before  his  departure  he  wrote  a  short 
letter  of  farewell  to  his  stepfather,  thanking  him  for  his  tacit 
consent,  and  promising  to  do  his  best  to  get  on,  concluding  it 
with  love  to  himself  and  to  Herbert,  and  to  the  Rectory  servants. 
VVhich  letter  scmiehow  got  put  into  Aunt  Dean's  kitchen  fire, 
and  ne\'er  reached  Timberdale. 

Aunt  Dean  watched  the  Rose  of  Delhi  sail  by  ;  Jack,  in  his 
bran-new  uniform,  waving  his  last  farewells  to  her  with  his 
gold-banded  cap.  The  sigh  of  relief  she  heaved  when  the  fine 
vessel  was  out  of  sight  seemed  to  do  her  good.  Then  she  bolted 
herself  into  her  chamber,  and  opened  Mr.  Lewis's  letter,  which 
had  lain  untouched  till  then.  As  she  expected,  it  contained  a 
positive  interdiction,  written  half  sternly,  half  lovingly,  for 
John  to  sail  in  the  Rose  of  Delhi,  or  to  think  more  of  the  sea. 
Moreover,  it  commanded  him  home  at  once,  and  it  contained 
a  promise  that  he  should  be  placed  to  learn  the  farming  with- 
out delay.  Aunt  Dean  tri2:)ped  to  Peggy's  fire  and  burnt  that 
too. 

There  was  a  dreadful  fuss  when  Jack's  departure  became 
known  at  Timberdale.  It  fell  upon  the  parson  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. He  came  striding  through  the  ravine  to  Crabb  Cot,  and 
burst  out  ci-ying  while  telling  the  news  to  the  Squire.  He 
feared  he  had  failed  somehow  in  bringing  John  up,  he  said; 
or  he  never  would  have  repaid  him  with  this  base  disobedience 


AUNT   DEAN.  151 

and  ingratitude.  For,  you  see,  the  poor  man  thought  Jack 
had  received  his  letter,  and  gone  off  in  defiance  of  it.  The 
Squire  agreed  with  liiin  that  Jack  deserved  the  cat-o'-nine  tails, 
and  all  other  bc»ys  who  traitorously  decamped  to  sea. 

Before  the  hay  was  all  got  in.  Aunt  Dean  was  back  at  Tim- 
berdale,  bringing  Alice  with  her  and  the  bills  for  the  outfit. 
Slie  let  the  pai'son  think  what  he  would  about  Jack,  ignoring 
all  knowledge  of  the  letter,  and  affecting  to  believe  that  Jack 
could  not  hare  had  it.  But  the  part^ou  argued  that  Jack  must 
have  had  it,  and  did  have  it,  or  it  would  have  come  back  to 
him.  The  only  one  to  say  a  good  word  for  Jack  was  Alice. 
She  persisted  in  an  opinion  that  Jack  could  not  be  either  dis- 
obedient or  ungrateful,  and  that  there  must  have  been  some 
strange  mistake  somewhere. 

Aunt  Dean's  work  was  not  all  done.  She  took  the  poor 
parson  under  her  wing,  and  proved  to  him  that  he  had  no  re- 
source now  but  to  disinherit  Jack,  and  make  Herbert  the  entire 
heir.  To  leave  money  to  Jack  would  be  wanton  waste,  she 
urged,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  squander  it :  better  bequeath 
all  to  Herbert,  who  would  of  course  look  after  his  brother  in 
later  life,  and  help  him  if  he  needed  help.  So  one  of  the 
Worcester  solicitors,  Mr.  Hill,  was  sent  for  to  Timberdale  to 
receive  instructions  for  making  the  parson's  will  in  Herbert's 
favour,  and  to  cut  off  Jack. 

That  night,  after  Mr.  Hill  had  gone  back  again,  was  one  of 
the  worst  the  parson  had  ever  spent.  He  was  a  j  ust  man  and 
1  kind  one,  and  he  felt  racked  with  fear  lest  he  had  taken  too 
severe  a  measure,  and  one  that  his  late  wife,  the  true  owner 
of  the  money  and  John's  mother,  would  never  have  sanctioned. 
His  bed  was  as  a  fever,  his  pillow  a  torment ;  up  he  got,  and 
walked  the  room  in  his  night-shirt. 

"■  My  Lord  and  God  knoweth  that  I  would  do  what  is  right," 
he  groaned.  "  I  am  sorely  troubled.  Youth  is  vain  and  des- 
perately thoughtless;  perhaps  the  boy,  in  his  love  of  adventure 
never  looked  at  the  step  in  the  light  of  ingratitude.  I  cannot 
cut  him  quite  off,  I  should  never  find  peace  of  mind  if  I  did. 


152  AUNT   DEAN. 

He  shall  have  a  little ;  and  perhaps  if  he  grows  into  a  steady 
fellow  and  comes  back  what  he  ought  to  be,  I  may  alter  the 
will  later  and  leave  them  equal." 

The  next  day  the  i)arson  wrote  privately  to  Mr.  Hill,  saying 
he  had  reconsidered  his  determination  and  would  let  Jack  in- 
herit to  the  extent  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year. 

Herbert  came  home  for  the  long  vacation ;  and  he  and  A  lice 
were  together  as  they  had  been  before  that  upstart  Jack 
stepped  in.  They  often  came  to  the  Squire's  and  oftener  to 
the  Coneys.  Grace  Coney,  a  niece  of  old  Coney,  had  come  tc 
live  at  tlie  farm  ;  she  was  a  nice  girl,  and  she  and  Alice  liked 
each  other.  You  might  see  them  with  Herbert  strolling  about 
the  fields  any  hour  in  the  day.  At  home  Alice  and  Herbert 
seemed  never  to  care  to  separate.  Mrs.  Dean  watched  them 
quietly,  and  thought  how  beautifully  her  plans  had  worked. 

Aunt  Dean  did  not  go  home  till  October.  After  she  left, 
the  parson  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  Charles  Ashton,  then 
just  ordained  to  priest's  orders,  took  the  duty.  Mrs.  Dean 
came  back  again  for  Christmas.  As  if  she  would  let  Alice  stay 
away  from  the  parsonage  when  Herbert  was  at  home ! 

The  Rose  of  Delhi  did  not  come  back  for  nearly  two  years. 
She  was  what  is  called  a  free  ship,  and  took  charters  for  any 
place  she  could  make  money  by.  One  day  Alice  Dean  was  lean- 
ing out  of  the  windows  of  her  mother's  house,  gazing  wistfully 
on  the  sparkling  sea,  when  a  grand  and  stately  vessel  cauie 
sailing  homewards,  and  some  brown-faced  young  fellow  on 
the  quarter-deck  set  on  to  swing  his  cap  violently  by  way  of 
hailing  her.  She  looked  to  the  fiag  which  happened  to  be  fly- 
ing, and  read  the  name  there,  "The  Rose  of  Delhi."  It 
must  be  Jack  who  was  saluting.  Alije  burst  into  tears  of 
emotion. 

He  came  up  from  the  docks  the  same  day.  A  great  brown 
handsome  fellow,  with  the  old  single' heart  and  open  manners. 
And  he  clasped  Alice  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  ever  so  many 
times  before  she  could  get  free.  Being  a  grownup  young 
lad}^  now,  she  did  not  approve  of  unceremonious  kisting,  and 


AUNT   DEAN.  153 

told  Jack  so.     Aunt  Dean  was  not  present,  or  she  might  have 
told  him  so  more  to  the  purpose. 

Jack  had  given  satisfaction,  and  was  getting  on.  He  told 
Alice  privately  that  he  did  not  like  the  sea  so  much  as  he  an 
ticipated,  and  could  not  believe  how  any  other  fellow  did  ;  but 
as  he  had  chosen  it  as  his  calling,  he  meant  to  stand  by  it. 
He  went  to  Timberdale,  in  spite  of  Aunt  Dean's  advice  and 
3fforts  to  keep  him  away.  Herbert  was  absent,  she  said  ;  the 
rector  ill  and  childish.  Jack  found  it  all  too  true.  Mr.  Lewis's 
mind  had  failed  and  his  health  was  breakino;.  He  knew  Jack 
and  was  over-affectionate  with  him,  but  seemed  not  to  remem- 
ber anything  of  the  past.  So  never  a  word  did  Jack  hear  of 
his  own  disobedience,  or  of  any  missing  letters. 

One  person  alone  questioned  him  ;  and  that  was  Alice.  It 
was  after  he  got  back  from  Timberdale.  She  asked  him  to 
tell  her  the  history  of  his  sailing  in  the  Rose  of  Delhi,  and  he 
gave  it  in  detail,  without  reserve.  When  he  spoke  of  the 
postscript  that  Aunt  Dean  had  bade  him  add  to  his  letter, 
arranging  that  silence  should  be  taken  for  consent,  and  that 
as  no  answer  had  come,  he  of  course  had  so  taken  it,  the  girl 
turned  sick  and  faint.  She  saw  the  treachery  that  had  been 
at  work  and  where  it  had  lain  ;  but  for  her  mother's  sake  she 
hashed  it  U23  and  let  the  matter  pass.  Alice  had  not  lived 
with  her  mother  so  many  years  without  detecting  her  propen- 
sity for  deceit. 

Some  years  passed  by.  Jack  got  on  well.  He  served  as 
third  mate  on  the  Rose  of  Delhi  long  before  he  could  pass,  by 
law,  for  second.  He  was  made  second  mate  as  soon  as  he  had 
passed  for  it.  The  Rose  of  Delhi  came  in  and  went  out,  and 
Jack  stayed  by  her,  and  passed  for  first  mate  in  course  of  tiuie. 
He  was  not  sent  back  in  any  of  his  examinations,  as  most 
young  sailors  are,  and  the  board  once  went  the  length  of  com- 
plimenting him  on  his  answers.  The  fact  was,  Jack  held  to 
his  word  of  doing  his  best ;  he  got  into  no  mischief  and  was 
the  smartest  sailor  afloat.     He  was  in  consequence  a  favourite 

with  the  owners,  and  Captain  Druce  took  pains  with  liim  and 

7* 


154  AUNT   DEAN. 

brought  him  on  in  seamanship  and  navigation,  and  showed 
him  how  to  take  observations,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  There's 
no  end  of  difference  in  merchant-captains  in  this  respect: 
Bome  teach  their  junior  oflicers  nothing.  Jack  finally  passed 
triumphantly  for  master,  and  hoped  his  time  would  come  to 
get  a  command.  Meanwhile  he  went  out  again  as  first  mate 
on  the  Rose  of  Delhi. 

One  spring  morning  there  came  news  to  Mrs.  Dean  from 
Timberdale.  The  rector  had  had  another  stroke  and  was 
thought  to  be  near  his  end.  She  started  off  at  once,  with 
Alice.  Charles  Ashton  had  had  a  living  given  to  him  ;  and 
Herbert  Tanerton  was  now  his  stepfather's  curate.  Herbert 
had  passed  as  shiningly  in  mods  and  divinity  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  as  Jack  had  passed  before  the  Marine  Board.  He  was  a 
steady,  thoughtful,  serious  3'oung  man,  did  his  duty  well  in 
the  parish,  and  preached  better  sermons  than  ever  the  rector 
had.  Mrs.  Dean,  who  looked  upon  him  as  Alice's  husljand  as 
Burely  as  though  they  were  married,  was  as  proud  of  his  suc- 
cess as  though  it  had  been  her  own. 

The  rector  was  very  ill  and  unable  to  leave  his  bed.  Ilis 
intellect  was  quite  gone  now.  Mrs,  Dean  sat  with  him  most 
of  the  day,  leaving  Alice  to  be  taken  care  of  by  Herbert. 
They  went  about  together  just  as  always,  and  were  on  the  best 
of  confidential  terms;  and  came  over  to  the  Coneys,  and  to 
ns  when  we  were  at  Crabb  Cot. 

"  Herbert,"  said  Mrs.  Dean  one  evening  when  she  had  all 
her  soft,  sugary  manner  upon  her  and  was  making  the  young 
parson  believe  she  had  nobody's  interest  at  heart  in  the  world 
but  his :  "  my  darling  boy,  is  it  not  almost  time  you  began  to 
think  of  marriage  ?  None  know  the  happiness  and  comfort 
brought  by  a  good  wife,  dear,  until  they  experience  it.'' 

Herbert  looked  taken  to.  He  turned  as  red  as  a  school- 
girl, and  glanced  half  a  moment  at  Alice,  like  a  detected 
thief. 

"  I  must  wait  until  I  get  a  living  to  think  of  that,  Auut 
Dean." 


AUNT   DEAN.  155 

*^Is  it  necessary,  Herbert?  I  should  have  thought  you 
might  bring  a  wife  home  to -the  Rectory  here." 

llerbert  turned  off  the  subje<',t  with  a  jesting  word  or  two^ 
and  got  out  of  his  redness.  Aunt  Dean  was  eminently  satis- 
fied ;  his  confusion  and  his  impromptu  glance  at  Alice  had 
told  tales  ;  and  she  knew  it  was  only  a  question  of  time. 

The  rector  died.  When  the  grass  was  long  and  the  May 
flowers  were  in  bloom  and  the  cuckoo  was  sino-ino-in  the  trees 
he  passed  peacefully  to  his  rest.  Just  before  death  he  reco- 
vered spee(;h  and  consciousness  ;  but  the  chief  thing  he  said 
was  that  he  left  his  love  to  Jack. 

After  the  funeral  the  will  was  opened.  It  had  not  been 
touched  since  that  far  past  year  when  Jack  had  gone  away 
to  sea.  Out  of  the  eight  hundred  a  year  descended  from  their 
mothei-,  Jack  had  a  hundred  and  fifty ;  Herbert  the  rest. 
Aunt  Dean  made  a  hideous  frown  for  once  in  her  life ;  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  Jack,  was  only,  as  she 
looked  upon  it,  so  much  robbery  on  Herbert  and  Alice.  Out 
of  the  little  money  saved  by  the  rector,  five  hundred  pounds 
were  left  to  his  sister,  Rebecca  Dean ;  the  rest  was  to  be 
divided  equally  between  Herbert  and  Jack  ;  and  his  furniture 
and  effects  went  to  Herbert.  On  the  whole,  Aunt  Dean  was 
tolerably  satisfied. 

She  was  a  woman  who  liked  to  keep  up  appearances 
Btrictly,  and  she  made  a  move  to  leave  the  young  parson  at 
the  end  of  a  week  or  two's  time,  and  go  back  to  Liverpool. 
Herbert  did  not  detain  her.  His  own  course  was  uncertain 
until  a  fresh  rector  should  be  appointed.  Tlie  living  was  in 
the  gift  of  a  neighbouring  baronet,  and  it  was  fancied  by 
Bome  that  he  might  give  it  to  Herbert.  One  thing  did  sur- 
prise Mrs.  Dean ;  angered  her  too :  that  Herbert  had  not 
made  his  offer  to  Alice  before  their  departure.  Now  that  he 
had  his  own  fortune  at  command,  there  was  no  necessity  foi 
him  to  wait  for  a  living. 

News  greeted  them  on  their  arrival.  The  Rose  of  Delhi 
was  on  her  way  home  once  more,  with  John  Tanerton  in 


156  AUNT   DEAIT. 

command.  Captain  Dnice  had  been  left  behind  at  Calcutta, 
dangerously  ill.  Alice's  colour  came  and  went.  Slie  looked 
out  for  the  homeward-bound  vessels  passing  inwards,  and  felt 
quite  sick  with  anxiety  lest  Jack  should  fail  in  any  way,  and 
never  bring  home  the  ship. 

"  The  Rose  of  Delhi,  Captain  Tanerton."  Alice  Dean  cast 
her  eyes  on  the  ship  news  in  the  morning  paper,  and  read  the 
announcement  amidst  the  arrivals.  Just  for  au  instant  her 
pight  left  her. 

"Mamma,"  she  presently  said,  quietly  passing  over  the 
newspaper,  "  the  Rose  of  Delhi  is  in." 

"  The  Rose  of  Delhi,  Captain  Tanerton,"  read  Mrs.  Dean. 
"  The  idea  of  their  sticking  in  Jack's  name  as  captain  !  lie 
will  have  to  go  down  again  as  soon  as  Captain  Druce  returns. 
A  fine  captain  I  daresay  he  has  made ! " 

"  At  least  he  has  brought  the  ship  home  safely  and  quickly," 
Alice  ventui-ed  to  say.  "  It  must  have  passed  after  dark  last 
night." 

"  WTiv  after  dark  ?  " 

Alice  did  not  reply — Because  I  was  watching  till  daylight 
faded — which  would  have  been  the  truth.  "  Had  it  passed 
before,  some  of  us  might  have  seen  it,  mamma." 

The  day  was  waning  before  Jack  came  up.  Captain 
Tanerton.  Jack  was  never  to  go  back  again  to  his  chief- 
mateship,  as  Aunt  Dean  had  surmised,  for  the  owners  had 
given  him  the  permanent  command  of  the  Rose  of  Delhi. 
The  last  mail  had  brought  news  from  Captain  Druce  that  he 
should  never  be  well  enough  for  the  command  again,  and  the 
owners  were  only  glad  to  give  it  to  the  younger  and  more 
active  man.  The  officers  and  crew  alike  reported  that  never 
a  better  master  sailed,  than  Jack  had  proved  himself  on  this 
homeward  voyage. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  have  been  very  lucky  on  the  whole, 
Aunt  Dean  ?  Fancy  a  young  fellow  like  me  getting  such  a 
beautiful  ship  as  that !  " 

"Oh,  very  lucky,"  returned  Aunt  Dean. 


AUNT   DEAJT.  157 

Jack  looked  like  a  captain  too.  He  was  broad  and  manlvj 
with  an  intelligent,  honest,  handsome  face,  and  the  quick 
keen  eye  of  a  sailor.  Jack  was  particular  in  his  attire  too: 
and  some  sailors  are  not :  he  dressed  as  a  private  gentlenjau 
when  on  shore. 

"  Only  a  hundred  and  fifty  left  to  me  !  "  cried  Jack,  when 
h€  was  told  the  news.  "  Well,  perhaps  Herbert  may  re- 
quire more  tlian  I,  poor  fellow,"  he  added  in  his  good  nature : 
"  he  may  not  get  a  good  living,  and  then  he'll  be  glad  of  it 
I  shall  be  sure  to  do  well  now  I've  got  the  ship." 

"  You'll  be  at  sea  always,  Jack,  and  will  have  no  use  foj 
money,"  said  Mrs.  Dean. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  having  no  use  for  it.  Aunt 
Anyway,  my  father  thought  it  right  to  leave  it  so,  and  I  ara 
content.  I  wish  I  could  have  said  farewell  to  him  before  he 
died  !  " 

A  few  days  more,  and  Aunt  Dean  was  thrown  on  her 
beam-ends  at  a  worse  angle  than  the  Rose  of  Delhi  hoped  to 
be.  Jack  and  Alice  discussed  matters  between  themselves, 
and  the  result  was  disclosed  to  her.  They  were  going  to  be 
married. 

It  was  Alice  who  told.  Jack  had  just  left,  and  she  and 
her  mother  were  sitting  together  in  the  summer  twilio-ht.  At 
first  Mrs.  Dean  thought  Alice  was  joking :  she  was  like  a 
mad  woman  when  she  found  it  true.  Her  great  dream  had 
never  foreshadowed  this. 

"  How  dare  you  to  attempt  to  think  of  so  monstrous  a  thing, 
you  wicked  girl  ?  Marry  your  own  brother-in-law  ! — it  would 
be  no  better.     It  is  Herbert  that  is  to  be  your  husband." 

Alice  shook  her  head  with  a  smile.  "  Herbert  would  not 
have  me,  mamma;  nor  would  I  have  him.  Herbert  will 
marry  Grace  Coney." 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Dean. 

"  Grace  Coney.  They  have  been  in  love  with  one  another 
ever  so  many  years.  I  have  known  it  all  along.  He  will 
mai-ry  her  as  soon  as  his  future  is  settled.     I  had  promised 


158  AU»I    DEAN. 

to  be  one  of  the  bridesmaids,  but  I  suppose  I  sliall  not  get 
the  chance  now." 

"  Grace  Coney — that  beggarly  girl !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Dean. 
"  But  for  her  uncle's  giving  her  shelter  slic  unist  have  turned 
out  in  the  world  when  licr  father  died  and  got  her  living 
how  she  could.     iShe  is  not  a  lady.    She  is  not  llei'bert's  equal. ' 

"Oh,  yes,  she  is,  mamma.  She  is  a  nice  girl  and  will 
make  him  a  perfect  wife.  Herbert  would  not  exchange  her 
for  the  richest  lady  iu  the  land." 

"If  Herbert  chooses  to  make  a  spectacle  of  himself,  you 
never  shall !"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Dean,  all  her  golden  visions 
fast  melting  iuto  air.  "  I  would  see  that  wicked  Jack  Taner- 
ton  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  first." 

"  Mother,  dear,  listen  to  me.  Jack  and  I  have  cared  for 
each  other  for  years  and  years,  and  we  should  neither  of  us 
marry  anybody  else.  There  is  nothing  to  wait  for  ;  Jack  is 
as  well  off  as  he  will  be  for  vears  to  come :  and — and  we 
have  settled  it  so,  and  1  hope  you  will  not  oppose  it." 

It  was  a  cruel  moment  ftu"  Aunt  Dean.  Her  love  for  other 
people  had  been  all  pretence,  but  she  did  leve  her  daughter. 
Besides  that,  she  was  ambitious  for  her. 

"  I  can  never  let  you  marry  a  sailor,  Alice.  Anything  but 
that." 

"  It  was  you  who  made  Jack  a  sailor,  mother,  and  there's 
no  help  for  it,"  said  Alice,  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  would  rather 
he  had  been  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  would  have  liked 
him  to  have  had  land  and  farmed  it.  We  should  have  done 
well.  Jack  had  his  four  hundred  a  year  clear,  you  know. 
At  least,  he  ought  to  have  had  it.  Oh,  inother,  don't  yon  see 
that  while  you  have  been  plotting  against  Jack  you  have 
plotted  against  me?  " 

Aunt  Dean  felt  sick  with  the  memories  that  were  crowding 
upon  her.     The  mistake  she  had  made  was  a  frightful  one. 

"  You  cannot  join  your  fate  to  Jack's,  Alice,"  she  repeated, 
wringing  her  hands.  "  A  sailor's  wife  is  too  liable  to  be  made 
9.  widow." 


AUNT    DEAN.  159 

"  I  know  it,  mother.  I  shall  share  his  danger,  for  I  ara 
going  out  in  the  Rose  of  Delhi.  The  owners  have  consented, 
and  Jack  is  litting  up  a  lovely  little  cabin  for  me  that  is  tc 
be  my  own  saloon." 

"  My  daughter  sailing  over  the  seas  in  a  merchant  ship  ! " 
gasped  Aunt  Dean.     "Never!  " 

"  I  should  be  no  true  wife  if  I  could  let  my  husband  sail 
without  me.  Mother,  it  is  you  alone  who  have  carved  out 
our  destin3\     Better  have  left  it  to  God." 

In  a  startled  way,  her  heart  full  of  remorse,  she  was  be« 
ginning  to  see  it ;  and  sat  down,  half  fainting,  on  a  chair. 

"  It  is  a  miserable  prospect,  Alice." 

"  Mother,  we  shall  get  on.  There's  the  hundred  and  fifty 
a  year  certain,  you  know.  That  we  shall  put  by ;  and,  as 
long  as  I  sail  with  him,  a  good  deal  more  besides.  Jack's 
pay  is  fixed  at  twenty  pounds  a  month,  and  he  will  make 
more  by  commission:  perhaps  as  much  again.  Have  no  fear 
for  us  on  that  score.  Jack  has  been  deprived  unjustly  of  his 
birth-right ;  and  I  think  sometimes  that  perhaps  as  a  recom- 
pense Heaven  wili  prosper  him." 

"  But  the  danger,  Alice  !     The  danger  of  a  soa-life  !  " 

"  Dc)  you  know  what  Jack  says  about  the  danger,  mother  ? 
He  says  God  is  over  us  on  the  sea  at  well  as  on  the  land,  and 
will  take  care  of  those  who  put  their  trust  in  Him.  In  the 
wildest  storm  I  will  try  to  let  that  great  truth  help  me  to  feel 
peace." 

Alas  for  Aunt  Dean!  The  arguments  slipped  away  from 
her  hands  just  as  her  plans  had  slipped.  In  her  bitter  re- 
pentance, she  lay  on  the  fioor  of  her  room  that  night  and 
asked  God  to  have  pity  upon  her,  for  her  trouble  seemed 
greater  than  she  could  bear. 

The  morning's  post  brought  news  from  Herbert,  He  was 
made  rector  of  Timberdale.  Aunt  Dean  wrote  back,  telling 
him  what  had  taken  place,  and  asking,  nay,  almost  command- 
ing, that  he  should  restore  an  equal  share  of  the  property  tc 
Jack.      Herbert  replied  that  he  should  abide  by  his  step 


160  AUNT   DEAN. 

father's  will.  The  living  of  Tiniberdale  was  not  a  rich  onGj 
and  he  wished  Grace,  his  future  wife,  to  be  comfortable. 
"Herbert  was  always  intensel}'  sellish,"  gi  >aned  Aunt  Dean. 
Look  on  wliich  side  she  would,  there  was  no  couiiort. 

The  Rose  of  Delhi,  Captain  Tanerton,  sailed  out  of  pert 
again,  carrying  also  with  her  l\Irs.  Tanerton,  the  captain's 
wife.  And  Aunt  Dean  was  left  to  bemoan  her  fate,  and 
wish  she  had  never  meddled  to  shape  out  other  people's  des- 
tinies.    Better,  as  Alice  said,  that  she  had  left  that  to  God. 


YIII. 
GOIXG    THEOUGH    THE   TUXKEL. 
E  had  to  make  a  rush  for  it.     And  making  a  rush  did 


^^i  not  suit  the  Squire,  any  more  than  it  does  other  peo- 
{^7^  pie  who  have  come  to  an  age  when  tlie  body's  big 
and  the  breath  nowhere.  He  reached  the  train, 
pushed  head-foremost  into  a  carriage,  and  then  remembered 
the  tickets.  "  Bless  my  heart !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  jumped 
out  again  and  nearly  upset  a  lady  who  had  a  little  dog  in  her 
arms,  and  a  great  big  mass  of  fashionable  hair  on  her  head,  that 
the  Squire,  in  his  hurry,  mistook  for  tow. 

"  Plenty  of  time,  sir,"  said  a  guard  who  was  passing,    "There's 
three  minutes  to  spare.'' 

Instead  of  saying  he  was  obliged  to  the  man  for  his  civility, 
or  relieved  to  find  the  tickets  might  be  had  still,  the  Squire 
snatched  out  his  old  watch,  and  began  abusing  the  railway 
clocks  for  being  slow.  Had  Tod  been  there  he  would  have 
told  him  to  his  face  that  it  was  the  watch  that  was  fast,  braving 
all  retort,  for  the  Squire  believed  in  his  watch  as  he  did  in 
himself,  and  would  rather  have  been  told  that  he  could  go 
wrong  than  that  the  watch  could.  But  there  was  only  me : 
and  I'd  not  have  said  it  for  anything. 

"  Keep  two  back-seats  there,  Johnny,"  said  the  Squire. 

I  put  my  coat  on  the  corner-seat  furthest  from  the  door, 
and  the  rug  on  the  one  next  to  it,  and  followed  him  into 
the  station.  When  the  Squire  was  late  in  starting,  he  was  apt 
to  gel  into  the  greatest  flurry  conceivable  ;  and  the  first  thing 
I  saw  was  himself  blocking  up  the  ticket- place,  and  undoing 


J  62  GOING    THROUGH    THE    TUNNEL. 

his  pocket-book  with  twitclH'ng  fingers.  He  had  some  loose 
gold  about  him,  silvc]-,  too,  but  the  pocket-book  met  his  hand 
first,  so  lie  pulled  out  that.  Tiiese  flurried  moments  of  the 
Squire's  amused  Tod  beyond  telling  ;  he  was  so  cool  himself. 

"  Can  you  change  this  ? "  said  the  Squire,  drawing  out  one 
from  a  roll  of  five-pound  notes. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  was  the  answer,  in  the  surly  tone  put  on  l)y 
ticket-clerks. 

How  the  Squire  crumpled  up  the  note  again,  and  searched  in 
his  breeches  pocket  for  the  gold,  and  came  away  with  the  two 
tickets  and  the  change,  I'm  sure  he  never  knew.  There  was  a 
crowd  rrathei-ed  round,  wantino-  to  take  their  tickets  in  turn, 
and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  keeping  them  flurried  him  all 
the  inoie.  lie  stood  at  the  back  a  moment,  put  the  roll  of 
notes  into  his  case,  fastened  it  and  returned  it  to  the  breast  of 
his  over-coat,  sent  the  change  down  into  another  pocket  with- 
out counting  it,  and  went  out  with  the  tickets  in  his  hand.  Not 
to  the  carriage  ;  but  to  take  a  stare  at  the  big  clock  in  front. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Johnny  ?  exactly  four  minutes  and  a  half 
difference,"  he  cried,  holding  out  his  watch  to  me.  "It  is  a 
strange  thing  they  can't  keep  these  railway  clocks  in  order." 

"  My  watch  keeps  good  time,  sir,  and  mine  is  with  the  rail- 
way.    1  think  it  is  I'ight." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Johnny.  How  dare  you!  Right?  You 
Bend  your  watch  to  be  regulated  the  first  opportunity,  sir ; 
don't  you  get  into  the  habit  of  being  too  late  or  too  early." 

\Vlien  we  went  finally  to  the  carriage  there  were  some  peo- 
ple in  it,  but  our  seats  were  left.  Squire  Todhetley  sat  down 
by  the  further  door,  and  settled  himself  and  his  coats  and  his 
things  coujfortably,  which  he  hadl)cen  too  flurried  to  do  before. 
Cool  as  a  cucumber  was  he,  now  the  bustle  was  over ;  cool  as 
Tod  could  have  been.  At  the  other  door,  with  his  face  to  the 
engine,  sat  a  dark,  gentlemanly-looking  man  of  forty,  who  had 
made  room  for  us  to  ]iass  him  as  we  got  in.  He  had  a  large 
Bignet-i-ing  on  one  hand,  and  a  lavender  glove  on  the  other 
The  other  three  seats  op])osite  to  us  were  vacant. 


GOING    TIIBOLTGH    THE    TUNNEL.  163 

Next  to  nie  sat  a  little  man  with  a  fresh  colour  and  gold  spec* 
tacles,  who  ^vas  alread}^  reading  ;  and  beyond  him,  in  the  coz'- 
ner,  face  to  face  with  the  dark  man,  was  a  lunatic.  That's  to 
to  speak  of  him  politely.  Of  all  the  restless,  tidgety,  worrying, 
hot-tempered  passengei'S  that  ever  put  themselves  into  a  carriage 
to  ti'avel  with  people  in  their  senses,  he  was  the  worst.  In  fif- 
teen moments  he  had  made  fifteen  darts  ;  now  after  his  hat-box 
and  things  above  his  head ;  now  calling  the  guard  and  the  por- 
ters to  ask  senseless  questions  about  his  luggage  ;  now  treading 
on  our  toes,  and  trying  the  corner  seat  opposite  the  Squire,  and 
then  darting  back  to  his  own.  His  hair  was  a  wig,  and  had 
a  decided  green  tinge,  the  effe(;t  of  keeping,  perhaps,  and  hia 
skin  was  dry  and  shrivelled  as  an  Egyptian  mummy's. 

A  servant,  in  undress  livery,  came  to  tlie  door,  and  touched 
his  hat,  which  had  a  cockade  in  it.  as  he  spoke  to  the  dark 
man. 

"  Your  ticket,  my  lord." 

Lords  are  not  travelled  with  every  day,  and  some  of  ua 
looked  u]i.  The  gentleman  took  the  ticket  from  the  man's 
hand  and  slipped  it  into  his  waiscoat  pocket. 

"  You  can  get  me  a  newspaper,  Wilkins.  The  Times,  if  it 
is  to  be  had." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"Yes,  tliere's  room  here,  ma'am,"  interrupted  the  guard, 
Bending  the  door  back  with  a  click,  for  a  lady  who  stood  at  it. 
"  Make  haste,  please." 

Tlie  lady  who  stepped  in  was  the  same  the  Squire  had  b^^It- 
ed  against.  She  sat  down  in  the  seat  opposite  me,  and  looked 
at  every  one  of  us  by  turns.  There  was  a  kind  of  violet  bloom 
on  her  face  and  some  soft  white  powder,  seen  plain  enough 
throucfh  her  veil.  She  took  the  lono-est  o-aze  at  the  dark  g-entle- 
man,  bending  a  little  forward  to  do  it ;  for,  as  he  was  in  a  line 
v>  ith  her,  and  had  his  head  tui-ned  from  her  as  well,  her  curios- 
ity could  only  get  a  view  of  his  side-face.  Mrs.  Todhetley 
might  liave  said  she  had  not  put  on  her  company  manners.  In 
the  midst  of  this,  the  sei'vant-man  came  back  again. 


164  GOING    THROUGH   THE   TUNNEL. 

*'  The  Times  is  not  here  yet,  my  lord.  They  are  expecting 
the  papers  in  by  the  next  down  train," 

"  Never  mind,  then.  You  can  get  rt  e  one  at  the  next  station, 
Wilkins." 

"  Yery  well,  my  lord." 

Wilkins  must  certainly  have  had  a  scramble  for  his  carriage, 
for  we  started  before  he  had  well  left  the  door.  It  was  not  an 
express  train,  and  we  should  liave  to  stop  at  several  stations. 
Where  the  Squire  and  I  had  l)een  staying  does  not  matter;  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  what  I  have  to  lell.  It  was  a  long  way 
from  our  own  home,  and  that's  enough  to  say. 

"  Would  you  mind  changing  seats  with  me,  sir?" 

I  looked  up,  to  find  the  lady's  face  close  to  mine  ;  she  had 
spoken  in  a  half-whisper.  The  Squire,  who  carried  his  old- 
fashioned  notions  of  politeness  with  him  when  he  went  travel- 
ling, at  once  got  up  to  offer  her  the  corner.  But  slie  declined 
it,  saying  she  was  subject  to  face-ache,  and  did  not  care  to  be 
next  the  window.  So  she  took  my  seat,  and  I  sat  down  in  the 
one  opposite  Mr.  Todiietley. 

"Whicliof  tlie  peers  is  that?"  I  heard  her  ask  him  in  a 
loud  whisper,  as  the  lord  put  his  head  out  at  his  window. 

"  Don't  know  at  all,  ma'am,"  said  the  Squire.  "  Don't  know 
many  of  the  peers  myself,  except  those  of  my  own  county : 
Lyttelton,  and  Beauchamp,  and " 

Of  all  snarling  barks,  the  worst  was  given  that  moment  in  the 
Squire's  face,  stopping  the  list  suddeidy.  The  little  dog,  an 
ugly,  hairy,  vile-tempered  Scotch  terrier,  had  been  held  in  con- 
cealment under  the  lady's  jacket,  and  now  struggled  himself 
free.  Tlie  Squire's  look  of  consternation  was  good  !  You  see, 
he  had  not  known  any  animal  was  there. 

"Be  quiet.  Wasp.  How  dare  you  bark  at  the  gentleman; 
He  will  not  bite,  sir:  he " 

"Who  has  got  a  dog  in  the  carriage?"  shrieked  out  the  hnia 
tic,  starting  up  in  a  passion.  "  Dogs  don't  travel  with  passen- 
gers.    Here!  Guard!  Guard!" 

To  call  out  for  the  guard  when  a  t  -air  is  going  at  full  speed 


GOING    THROUGH    THE   TUNNEL.  165 

is  generally  useless.  The  lunatic  had  to  eit  down  agaiu  ;  and 
the  lady  defied  him,  so  to  say,  coolly  avowing  that  she  had  hid 
the  dog  from  the  guard  on  purpose,  staring  him  in  the  face 
while  she  said  it. 

After  this  there  was  a  lull,  and  we  went  speeding  along,  the 
lady  talking  now  and  again  to  the  Squire.  She  seemed  to 
want  to  get  confidential  with  him  ;  but  the  Squire  did  not  seem 
to  care  for  it,  though  he  was  quite  civil.  She  held  the  dog  in  her 
lap  amidst  her  clothes,  so  that  nothing  but  his  head  peeped  out. 

"  Halloa !  How  dare  they  be  so  negligent  ?  There's  no  lamp 
in  this  carriao-e." 

It  was  the  lunatic  again,  and  we  all  looked  at  the  lamp.  It 
had  no  light  in  it;  but  that  it  had  when  we  first  reached  the 
carriage  was  certain  ;  for,  as  the  Squire  went  stumbling  in,  hia 
head  nearly  touched  the  lamp,  and  I  had  noticed  the  flame. 
It  seems  the  Squire  had  also. 

"  They  must  have  put  it  out  while  we  were  getting  our 
tickets,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  know  the  reason  why  when  we  stop,"  cried  the  lunatic, 
fiercely.  "After  passing  the  next  station,  we  dash  into  the  long 
tunnel.  The  idea  of  going  through  it  in  pitch  darkness  !  It 
would  not  be  safe." 

"  Especially  with  a  dog  in  the  carriage,"  spoke  the  lord,  in  a 
chaffing  kind  of  tone,  but  with  a  good-natured  smile.  "  We 
will  have  the  lamp  lighted,  however." 

As  if  to  reward  him  for  interference,  the  dog  barked  up 
loudly,  and  tried  to  make  a  spring  at  him;  upon  which  the 
lady  smothered  the  animal  up,  head  and  all. 

Another  minute  or  two,  and  the  train  bes-an  to  slacken  its 
speed.  It  was  bat  an  insignificant  station,  one  not  likely  to  be 
halted  at  for  above  a  minute.  The  lunatic  twisted  his  body 
out  at  the  window,  and  shouted  for  the  guard  long  before  we 
were  at  a  standstill 

"  Allow  me  to  manage  this,"  said  the  lord,  qnietly  putting 
him  down.     "  They  know  me  on  the  line.     Wilkins  !" 

The   man    came   rushing  up  at  the  cad.     He  must   have 


166  GOING    TIIKOTJGH   THE   TUNNEL. 

beer,  out  already,  tliough  we  were  not  quite  at  a  staudsti 
yet. 

"  Is  it  for  the  Times,  my  lord  ?     I  am  going  to  get  it." 

"Never  mind  the  Tlines.  This  lamp  is  not  lightedj 
Wilkiiis.     See  the  gnai-d,  and  get  it  done.     At  once." 

"And  ask  liim  wliat  the  mischief  he  means  by  his  careless- 
ness," roared  out  the  lunatic  in  the  wake  of  Wilkins,  who 
went  tivins:  oif.  "  Sendino:  us  on  our  I'oad  without  a  lici;ht? — 
and  that  dangerous  tunnel  close  at  hand." 

The  emphatic  authority  laid  upon  the  words"  Get  it  done," 
seemed  an  earnest  that  the  speaker  was  accustomed  to  ba 
obeyed  at  will,  and  would  be  this  time.  For  once  the  lunatic 
sat  quiet,  watching  the  lamj?,  and  for  the  light  that  was  to  be 
dropped  into  it  from  the  top ;  and  so  did  I,  and  so  did  the 
lady.  We  were  all  deceived,  however,  and  the  train  went 
puffing  on.  The  lunatic  shrieked,  the  lord  put  his  head  out  of 
the  carriage  and  shouted  for  Wilkins. 

No  o-ood.  Shoutin<r  after  a  train  is  oft  never  is  much  jjood. 
The  lord  sat  down  on  his  seat  again,  an  angry  frown  crossing 
his  face,  and  the  lunatic  got  up  and  danced  on  his  legs. 

"  I  do  not  know  where  the  blame  lies,"  observed  tlie  lord. 
''Not  with  my  servant,  I  think;  he  is  attentive,  and  has  been 
with  me  some  years." 

"I'll  know  where  it  lies,"  retorted  the  lunatic.  "I  am  a 
director  on  tlie  line,  though  I  don't  often  travel  on  it.  This 
e,s'  management,  this  is !  A  few  miiuites  more  and  we  shall 
be  in  the  dark  tunnel." 

"Of  course  it  would  have  been  satisfactory  to  liavealight, 
but  it  is  not  of  so  much  consequence,"  said  tlie  Jioblenian, 
v/ishiuij;  to  soothe  him.     "  There's  no  daup-er  in  the  dark." 

"No  dangei'!  No  danger,  sir !  I  think  there  is  danger. 
Who's  to  know  that  dog  don't sj^ring  out  and  bite  \\%\  Who'a 
to  know  there  won't  be  an  accident  in  mid-tunnel?  Alight 
18  a  protection  against  having  our  pockets  picked,  if  it's  s 
protection  against  nothing  else." 

"  1  fancy  our  pockets  are  pretty  safe  to  day,"  said  the  lord 


GOING   THROUGH   THE   TUNNEL.  167 

glancing  rouid  at  ns  with  a  good-natured  smile  ;  as  inucli  as 
to  say  that  none  of  ns  looked  like  thieves.  "And  I  certainly 
trust  we  shall  get  through  the  tunnel  in  safety." 

"And  I'll  take  care  the  dog  does  not  bite  you  in  the  daik," 
spoke  up  the  lady,  pushing  her  head  forward  to  give  the  luna- 
tic a  nod  or  two  that  ycni'd  liai'dly  have  matched  for  defiant 
impudence.  "You'll  be  good,  won't  you,  Wasp  !  But  I  should 
like  the  lamp  lighted  myself.  You  will  perhaps  be  so  kind^ 
my  lord,  as  to  see  that  there's  no  mistake  made  about  it  at  the 
next  station !  " 

He  slightly  raised  his  hat  to  her  and  bowed  in  answer, 
but  did  not  speak.  The  lunatic  buttoned  up  his  coat  with 
fingers  that  were  either  nervous  or  angry,  and  then  disturbed 
the  little  gentleman  next  him,  who  had  read  his  big  book 
throughout  the  whole  commotion  without  once  lifting  his  eyea 
by  hunting  everywhere  for  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Here's  the  tunnel !  "  he  cried  out  resentfully,  as  we  dashed 
with  a  shriek  into  pitch  darkness. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  her  to  say  she  would  take  care  of 
the  dog,  but  the  first  tiling  the  young  beast  did  was  to  make  a 
spring  at  me  and  then  at  the  Squire,  barking  and  yelping 
frightfully.  The  Squire  pushed  it  away  in  a  commotion. 
Though  well  accustomed  to  dogs,  he  always  fought  shy  of 
strange  ones.  The  lady  chattered  and  laughed,  and  did  not 
seem  to  try  to  get  hold  of  him,  but  wc  couldn't  see,  you  know  ; 
the  Squire  hissed  at  him,  the  dog  snarled  and  growled ; 
altogether  there  was  noise  enough  to  deafen  anything  but  a 
tunnel. 

"  Pitch  him  out  it  the  window,"  cried  the  lunatic. 

"  Pitch  yourself  out,"  answered  the  lady.  And  whether 
she  pi'opelled  the  dog,  or  whether  he  went  of  his  own  accord, 
the  beast  sprang  to  the  other  end  of  the  carriage,  and  was 
seized  upon  by  the  nobleman. 

"  I  think,  madam,  you  had  better  put  him  under  your 
mantle  and  keep  him  there,"  said  he,  bringhig  the  dog  back 
to   her   and  speaking  quite  civilly,  but  in  the  same  tone  o^ 


168  GOING  THROUGH  THE  TUNNEL. 

antliority  he  liad  used  to  his  servant  about  the  lamp.  "  I  have 
Hot  the  slightest  objection  to  dogs  mjse'f,  but  many  people 
have,  and  it  is  not  altogether  pleasant  to  have  them  loose  in 
a  railway  carriage.  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  cannot  see ;  is  this 
your  hand  'i " 

I;  was  her  hand,  I  suppose.^  for  the  dog  was  left  with  hei-, 
and  he  went  back  to  his  seat  again.  When  we  emerged  out 
of  the  tunnel  into  the  light  of  du}',  the  lunatic's  face  was  blue. 

"  Ma'am,  if  that  miserable  brute  had  laid  hold  of  me  by  so 
much  as  the  corner  of  my  great-coat  tail,  I'd  have  had  the  law 
of  you.  It  is  perfectly  monstrous  that  anybody,  putting  them- 
selves into  a  first-class  carriage,  should  attempt  to  outi-age 
railway  laws,  and  upset  the  comfort  of  travellers  with  im- 
punity.    I  shall  complain  to  the  guard." 

"  lie  does  not  bite,  sir ;  he  never  bites,"  she  softly  answered? 
as  if  sorry  for  the  escapade,  and  wishing  to  conciliate  him. 
The  poor  little  bijou  is  frightened  at  darkness,  and  leaped 
from  my  arms  unawares.  There  !  I'll  promise  that  you  shall 
neither  see  nor  hear  him  a<j;ain." 

She  had  tucked  tlie  dog  so  completely  out  of  sight,  that  no 
one  could  have  suspected  one  was  there,  just  as  it  had  been  on 
first  entering.  Tlie  train  was  drawn  up  to  the  next  station ; 
when  it  stopped,  the  servant  came  and  opened  the  carriage- 
door  for  his  master  to  get  out. 

"  Did  you  understand  me,  Wilkins,  when  I  told  you  to  get 
this  lamp  lighted  ?  " 

''  My  lord,  I'm  very  sorry  ;  I  understood  your  lordship  per- 
fectly, but  I  couldn't  see  the  guard,"  answered  Wilkins.  "  I 
caught  sight  of  liim  running  up  to  his  van-door  at  the  last 
moment,  but  the  train  began  to  move  off,  and  I  had  to  jump  in 
mvself,  or  else  be  left  behind." 

The  guard  passed  as  he  was  explaining  this,  and  the  noble- 
]nan  drew  his  attention  to  the  lamp,  curtly  ordering  him  to 
"light  it  instantly."  Lifting  his  hat  to  us  by  way  of  faiewell, 
he  disappeared  ;  and  the  lunatic  began  upon  the  guard  as  if 
he  were  co;innencin<r  a  h'cture  in  Bedlam  to  a  deaf  audience 


GOING  THROUGH    THE   TUN  MEL.  1G9 

The  f  ;iai'<i  fcenied  not  to  hear  it,  so  lost  was  he  in  astonish- 
meat  at  there  being  no  light. 

"Why,  what  can  have  douted  it?"  he  cried  aloud,  staring 
up  at  the  lamp.  And  the  Squire  smiled  at  the  familiar  word, 
S(j  common  in  our  ears  at  home,  and  had  a  great  mind  to  ask 
the  ii-uard  whence  he  came. 

"  I  lighted  all  these  here  lainps  myself  afore  we  started,  and- 
1  see  'em  all  burning,"  said  he.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
home  accent  now,  and  the  Squire  looked  down  the  carriage 
with  a  beamino;  face. 

"  You  are  from  Worcestershire,  my  man." 

"  From  Worcester  itself,  sir.  Leastways  from  St.  John's, 
which  is  the  same  thing." 

"  Whetlier  you  are  from  Worcester,  or  whether  you  are  from 
Jericho,  I'll  let  you  know  that  you  can't  put  dark  lamps  into  first- 
class  carriao^es  on  this  line  without  beinor  made  to  answer  for 
it !  "  roared  the  Innatic.  "  What's  your  name  ?  I  am  a  director." 

"  My  name  is  Thomas  Brooks,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  respect- 
fully touching  his  silver-banded  cap.  "  But  I  declare  to  you, 
sir,  that  I've  told  the  truth  in  saying  the  lamps  were  all  right 
when  we  started  :  how  this  one  can  have  got  douted,  I  can't 
think.  There's  not  a  guard  on  the  line,  sir,  more  particular  in 
Beeinij  to  the  lamps  than  I  am."  ' 

"  Well,  light  it  now  ;  don't  waste  time  excusing  yourself,"! 
growled  the  lunatic.  But  he  said  nothing  about  the  dog, 
which  was  surprising.  i 

In  a  twinkling  the  lamp  was  lighted,  and  we  were  off  again.' 
The  lady  and  her  dog  were  quiet  now  :  he  was  out  of  sight : 
she  leaned  back  to  go  to  sleep.  The  Squire  put  his  head 
against  the  curtain,  and  shut  his  eyes  to  do  the  same  ;  the  little 
■man,  as  before,  never  looked  off  his  book  ;  and  the  lunatic 
frantically  shifted  himself  every  two  minutes  between  his  own 
seat  and  that  of  the  opposite  corner.  There  were  no  more 
tunnels,  and  we  went  smoothly  on  to  the  next  station.  Five 
minutes  allowed  there.  i. 

The  little  man,  putting  his  book  in  his  pocket,  took  up  a 


170  GOING  THROUGH  THK  TUNNEL. 

black  leaiher  bag  from  abvwe  his  head,  and  got  out ;  the  .ady 
her  dog  hidden  still,  prepared  to  follow  hiin,  wishing  the 
S(piire  and  me,  and  even  the  lunatic,  with  a  forgiving  smile, 
a  polite  good  morning.  I  had  moved  to  that  end,  and  was 
watching  the  lady's  wonderful  back  hair  as  she  stepped  out, 
when  all  in  a  moment  the  Squire  sprang  up  with  a  shout  and 
a  cry,  and  jumped  out  nearly  upon  her,  calling  out  that  he  had 
been  robbed.  She  dropped  the  dog,  and  I  thought  he  must 
have  cauo-ht  the  lunatic's  disorder  and  become  frantic. 

It  is  of  no  use  attempting  to  describe  exactly  what  followed. 
The  lady,  snatching  up  her  dog,  shrieked  out  that  perhaps  she 
had  been  robbed  too  ;  she  had  laid  hold  of  the  Squire's  arm,  and 
■went  with  him  into  the  station-master's  room.  And  there  we 
were :  us  three  ;  and  the  guard,  and  the  station-master,  and  the 
lunatic,  who  had  come  pouncing  out  too  at  the  Squire's  cry. 
The  man  in  spectacles  had  disappeared  for  good. 

The  Squire's  pocket-book  was  gone.  lie  gave  his  name  and 
address  at  once  to  the  staticm-master :  and  the  guard's  face 
lighted  with  intelligence  when  he  heard  it,  for  he  knew  Squire 
Todhetley  by  reputation.  The  pocket-ljook  had  been  safe  just 
before  we  entered  the  tunnel ;  the  Squire  was  certain  of  that, 
havino-  felt  it.  He  had  sat  in  the  carriage  with  his  coat  un- 
buttoned,  rather  thrown  back  ;  and  nothing  could  have  been 
easier  than  for  a  practised  thief  to  draw  it  cleverly  out,  under 
cover  of  the  darkness. 

"  I  had  fifty  pounds  in  it,"  he  said  ;  "fifty  pounds  in  five- 
pound  notes.     And  some  memoraiula  besides." 

"  Fifty  pounds  !  "  cried  out  the  lady,  quickly.  "  And  you 
could  travel  with  all  that  about  you,  and  not  button  up  your 
coat !     You  ought  to  be  rich  1 " 

"  Have  von  been  in  the  habit  of  meetino;  thieves,  madam, 
when  travelling?"  suddenly  demanded  the  lunatic,  turning 
upon  her  without  warning,  his  coat  whirling  about  on  all  sides 
wich  the  rapidity  of  his  movements,  as  if  the  wind  took  it. 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not,"  she  answered,  in  an  indignant  tone. 
«*  Have  you  ?  " 


QOTSQ    TniJOrCH   THE   TUNNEL.  171 

**I  have  not,  madam.  But  then,  you  perceive  I  see  no  risk 
in  travelling  with  a  coat  unbuttoned,  although  it  may  have 
bank-notes  in  its  pockets." 

She  made  no  reply  :  was  too  much  occupied  in  turning  out 
her  ow^l  pockets  and  purse,  to  ascertain  that  they  had  not  been 
rifled.  Keassured  on  the  point,  she  sat  down  on  a  low  box 
against  the  wall,  nursing  her  dog  ;  which  had  begun  his  snarl- 
ing barks  ao:aiii. 

''  It  must  have  been  taken  from  me  in  the  darkness  as  we 
went  through  the  tunnel,"  affirmed  the  Squii-e  to  the  room  in 
general  and  perhaps  the  station-master  in  particular.  "  I  an] 
a  magisti'ate,  and  have  some  experience  in  these  things.  I  sat 
completely  off  my  guard,  a  ready  prey  to  anybody,  my  hands 
stretched  out  before  me,  grapplmg  with  that  dog,  that  seemed 
— why,  goodness  me  !  yes  he  did,  now  that  I  think  of  it — that 
seemed  to  be  held  about  fifteen  inches  off  my  nose  on  purpose 
to  attack  me.  That's  when  the  thing  must  have  been  done 
But  now — which  of  them  could  it  have  been  ? " 

lie  meant  of  the  passengers.  As  he  looked  hard  at  us  in 
rotation,  especially  at  the  guard  and  station-master,  who  had 
nut  been  in  the  carriage,  the  lady  gave  a  shrill  shi-iek,  and 
threw  the  dog  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  I  see  it  all,"  she  said,  faintly.  lie  has  a  habit  of  snatching 
at  tilings  with  his  mouth.  He  must  have  snatched  the  case 
out  of  your  pocket,  sir,  and  dropped  it  from  the  window.  You 
will  find  it  in  the  tunnel." 

"  Who  has  ?  "  asked  the  lunatic,  while  the  Squire  stared  in 
wonder. 

•'  My  poor  little  "Wasp.  Ah,  villain  !  beast !  it  is  he  that  has 
done  all  this  mishief." 

"  He  might  have  taken  the  pocket-book,"  I  said,  thinking 
it  time  to  speak,  "  but  he  could  not  have  dropped  it  out,  for  I 
put  the  window  up  as  we  went  into  the  tunnel." 

It  seemed  a  nonplus,  and  her  face  fell  again.  "  There  waa 
the  other  window,"  she  said  in  a  minute.  "  He  might  have 
dropped  it  there.     I  heard  his  bark  quite  close  to  it," 


172  GOING    THROUGH    THE    TUNNEL. 

"/  pulled  up  that  \vind(nv,  madam,"  said  the  lunatic.  "  If  the 
dog  (lid  take  it  out  of  the  pocket  it  may  be  in  the  cai'riage  now." 

The  <ijuard  rushed  out  to  search  it ;  the  Squire  followed,  but 
the  station-master  remained  where  he  was,  and  closed  the  door 
after  them.  A  thought  canie  over  me  that  he  was  staying  to 
kecj)  the  two  pasi,engers  in  view. 

No;  the  pocket-1)ook  could  not  be  found  in  the  carriage. 
As  they  came  back,  the  Squire  was  asking  the  guard  if  he 
knew  who  the  nobleman  was  who  had  got  out  at  the  last  station 
with  his  servant.     But  the  guard  did  not. 

"  lie  said  they  knew  him  on  the  line." 

"  Very  likely,  sir.  1  have  not  been  on  this  line  above  a 
month  or  two." 

"  Well,  this  is  an  nn])leasant  affair,"  said  the  Innatic  im- 
patiently, "  and  the  question  is — What's  to  be  done  ?  It  appears 
pretty  evident  that  your  pocket-book  was  taken  in  the  carriage, 
sir.  Of  the  four  passengers,  I  suppose  the  one  who  left  ns  at 
the  last  station  must  be  held  exempt  from  suspicion,  being  a 
nobleman.  Another  got  out  here,  and  has  disappeared;  the 
other  two  are  present.  I  propose  that  we  should  both  be 
eeai'ched." 

"I'm  sure  I  am  quite  willing,"  said  the  lady,  and  she  got 
up  at  once. 

I  think  the  Squire  was  about  to  disclaim  any  wish  so  to  act; 
but  the  lunatic  was  resolute,  and  the  station-master  agreed 
wiih  him.  There  was  no  time  to  lose,  for  the  train  was'  in 
a  hurry  to  go,  her  minutes  were  up,  and  the  lunatic  was  tuin- 
ed  out.  The  lady  went  into  another  i-ooni  with  two  women, 
called  by  the  station-master,  and  she  was  turned  out.  Keithor 
of  thorn  had  the  pocket-book. 

'•  llei-e's  my  card,  sir,"  said  the  lunatic,  handing  one  to  Mr, 
Tcxlhetley.  "  You  know  my  name,  I  daresay.  If  I  can  l)e  of  any 
future  assistance  to  you  in  this  matter,  you  may  command  me.'' 

"  liless  my  heart !  "  cried  the  Squire,  as  he  read  the  name  on 
the  card.  "  How  could  you  allow  yourself  to  be  searched,  sir  ?  " 

^'  13ecause,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  I  think  it  only  right  and 


GOING    THROUGH    THE    TUNNEL.  1 7S 

fair  that  everybody  who  had  the  misfortune  to  bo  mixed  up  in 
it  should  be  seai-ched,"  replied  the  hmatic,  as  they  went  out  to- 
gether. "It  is  a  satisfaction  to  both  parties.  Unless  you 
offered  to  search  me,  vou  could  not  have  offered  to  search  that 
woman ;  and  I  suspected  her." 

"  Suspected  her  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  opening  hi3  eyes. 

"If  I  didn't  suspect,  I  doubted.  Why  on  earth  did  she 
cause  her  dog  to  niake  all  that  row  the  moment  we  got  into 
the  tunnel  ?  It  must  have  been  done  then.  I  should  not  be  star- 
tled out  of  my  senses  if  I  heard  that  that  silent  man  by  my 
side  and  hers  was  in  league  with  her." 

The  Squire  stood  in  a  kind  of  maze,  trying  to  recall  what 
he  could  of  the  little  man  in  spectacles,  and  see  if  thinga 
would  lit  into  one  another. 

"  Don't  you  like  her  look  %  "  he  suddenly  asked. 

"  No,  I  doi-Ct^^  said  the  lunatic,  turning  himself  about  reck- 
lessly. "  I  have  a  prejudice  against  painted  women  :  they  put 
me  in  mind  of  Jezebel.     Look  at  her  hair.     It's  awful." 

He  went  out  in  a  storm,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  carriage, 
not  a  moment  before  it  puffed  off. 

"  Is  he  a  lunatic  %  "  I  whispered  to  the  Squire. 

"  He  a  lunatic  !  "  he  roared.  "  You  must  be  a  lunatic  for 
asking  it,  Johnny.     "Why,  that's — that's " 

Instead  of  savino;  more,  he  showed  me  the  card,  and  the 
name  nearly  took  my  breath  away.  lie  is  a  well-known 
Loiulon  man,  of  science,  talent,  and  position,  and  of  world- 
wide fame. 

"  'S^iiW^  I  thought  hiiu  nothing  better  than  an  escaped  ma- 
niac." 

"X^iVyou?"  said  the  Squire.  •' Perhaps  he  returned  the 
2ompliment  on  you,  sir.  But  now — Johnny,  who  has  got  my 
pocketbook  ? " 

As  if  it  was  any  use  asking  me  !  As  we  turned  back  to  the 
station-master's  room,  the  lady  came  into  it,  evidently  resent- 
ing the  search,  altliough  she  had  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  it  so 
readily. 


174  GOING   TIIROTJOn    THE    TUNNEL. 

"  They  were  rude,  those  women.  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
had  the  misfortune  to  travel  with  men  who  carry  pocket-books 
to  lose  them,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  the  last,"  she  pursued,  in 
scornful  passion,  meant  for  the  Scpiire.  "One  generally 
meets  with  gentlemen  in  a  first-class  carriage." 

The  emphasis  came  out  with  a  sort  of  shriek,  and  it  told  on 
him.  Kow  that  she  was  proved  imiocent,  he  was  as  vexed  as 
ehe  for  havino;  listened  to  the  advice  of  the  scientific  man  — 
but  I  can't  help  calling  him  a  lunatic  still.  The  Squire's 
apologies  might  have  disarmed  a  cross-grained  hyena ;  and 
she  came  round  with  a  smile. 

"  If  anybody  has  got  the  pocket-book,"  she  said,  as  she 
stroked  her  dog's  ears,  "  it  must  be  that  silent  man  with  the 
gold  spectacles.  There  was  nobody  else,  sir,  who  could  have 
reached  you  without  getting  up  to  do  it.  And  I  declare  on 
my  honoui-,  that  when  that  commotion  first  arose  through  my 
poor  little  dog,  I  felt  for  a  moment  something  like  a  man's 
arm  stretched  out  across  me.  It  could  only  have  been  his.  I 
hope  you  have  the  numbers  of  the  notes." 

"But  I  have  not,"  said  the  Squire. 

The  room  was  being  invaded  by  this  time.  Two  stray  pas- 
sengers, a  friend  of  the  station-master's,  and  the  porter  who 
took  the  tickets,  had  crept  in.  All  thought  the  lady's  opinion 
must  be  correct,  and  said  the  spectacled  man  had  got  clear  off 
with  the  pocket-book.     There  was  nobody  else  to  pitch  upon. 

A  nobleman  travelling  with  his  servant  would  not  be  likely 
to  commit  a  robbery  ;  the  lunatic  was  really  the  man  his  card 
represented  him  to  be,  for  the  station-master's  friend  had  seen 
and  recognized  him  ;  and  the  lady  was  proved  innocent  by 
practical  search.     Wasn't  the  Squire  in  a  passion  ! 

"  That  close  reading  of  his  was  all  a  blind,"  he  said,  in  sud- 
den conviction.  "  He  kept  his  face  down  that  we  should  not 
know  him  in  future.  He  never  looked  at  on."  of  us  !  he  never 
said  a  word  !  I  shall  go  and  find  him." 

Away  went  the  Squire,  as  fast  as  he  could  run,  but  came 
back  in  a  moment  to  know  which  was  the  way  out,  and  where 


GOING   THKU17GH    THE   TUNNEL.  175 

it  led  to.  Tliere  was  quite  a  lot  of  ns  by  this  time.  Some 
fields  lay  beyond  the  outlet  of  the  station  at  the  back ;  and  a 
boy  affirmed  that  he  had  seen  a  little  gentleman  in  spectacles, 
with  a  black  bag  in  his  hand,  making  over  the  first  stile. 

"  i^ow  look  you  here,  boy,"  said  the  Squire.  "  If  vou  catch 
that  same  man,  I'll  give  you  five  shillings." 

Tod  could  not  have  flown  faster  than  the  boy  did.  He  took 
the  stile  at  a  kind  of  leap ;  it  was  high  and  awkward ;  and 
the  Squire  tumbled  over  it  after  him.  Some  boys  and  men 
joined  in  the  chase ;  and  a  cow,  feeding  in  the  field,  trottec^ 
after  us  and  brought  up  the  rear. 

Such  a  shout  fiom  the  boy.  It  came  from  behind  the  op 
posite  hedge  of  the  long  field.  I  was  over  the  gate  first ;  the 
Squire  came  next. 

On  the  edge  of  the  dry  dit{*h  sat  the  passenger,  his  lega 
hanging  down,  his  neck  imprisoned  in  the  boy's  arms.  I  knew 
him  at  once.  His  hat  and  his  gold  spectacles  had  fallen  off  in 
the  scuffle  ;  the  black  bag  was  wide  open,  and  had  a  tall  bunch 
of  Something  green  sticking  up  from  it ;  some  tools  lay  on  the 
ground. 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  hypocrite  !  "  spluttered  the  Squire,  not  in 
the  least  knowing  what  he  said  in  his  passion.  "  Are  you  not 
ashamed  to  have  played  upon  me  such  a  vile  trick  ?  How 
dare  you  go  about  to  commit  robberies  !  " 

"  I  have  not  robbed  you,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  man,  his 
voice  shaking  a  little  and  his  face  pale,  while  the  boy  loosed 
the  neck  but  pinioned  the  arms  behind. 

"  jS^ot  robbed  me!"  cried  the  Squire.  "Good  heavens! 
Whom  do  you  suppose  yon  have  robbed,  if  not  me?  Here 
Joliimy,  lad,  you  are  a  witness.  He  says  he  has  not  robbed 
me." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  yours,"  said  the  man  meekly.  "  Loosa 
me,  boy ;  I'll  not  attempt  to  run  away." 

"  Halloa !  here !  what's  to  do  ?  "  roared  a  big:  fellow,  swing:- 
ing  himself  over  the  gate.  "  Any  tramp  been  trespassing  ? — 
anybody  wanting  to  be  took  up?     I'm  the  parish  constable." 


176  GOING  THROUGH  THE  TUNNEL. 

If  he  had  said  he  was  tlie  parish  engine,  ready  to  let  loose 
buckets  of  water  on  the  offender,  he  ccjiild  not  liave  been  mure 
welcome.     The  S(|uii-e's  face  was  rosy  with  satisfaction. 

"  Have  you  got  your  handcuffs  with  you,  my  man  ? "'' 

"I've  not  got  them,  sir;  but  I  fancy  I'm  big  enough  and 
Btrong  enough  to  take  lihix  without  'em.  Something  to  spare, 
too." 

"  There's  nothing  like  handcuffs  for  safety,"  said  tlie  Squire, 
rather  damped,  for  he  believed  in  them  as  one  of  the  country's 
iustitutions.  "  Oh,  you  villain  !  Perhaps  you  can  tie  him  with 
cords \  " 

The  thief  floundered  out  of  the  ditch  and  stood  upon  his  feet. 
lie  did  not  look  an  ungentlemanly  thief,  now  you  came  to  see 
him  and  hear  him  ;  ;uid  his  i'ace,  though  scared  and  white, 
might  have  been  thought  an  honest  one.  lie  picked  up  iiis 
hat  and  glasses,  and  held  them  in  his  hand  while  he  spoke,  in 
a  tone  of  earnest  remonstrance. 

''  Surely,  sir,  you  would  not  have  me  taken  up  for  this  slight 
offence.  I  did  not  know  I  was  doing  wrong,  and  I  doubt  if 
the  law  would  condenui  me :  I  thought  it  was  public  property  !" 

"  Public  property  ! "  danced  the  Squire,  turning  red  at  the 
words.  "  Of  all  the  impudent  brazen-faced  rascals  that  are 
cheating  the  gallows,  you  must  be  the  worst.  My  bank-notes 
public  property  ! " 

"  Your  what,  sir?  " 

"My  bank-notes,  you  villain.  How  dare  you  repeat  your 
insolent  (piestion?  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  anything  about  your  bank-notes,  sir,"  said 
the  man  meekly.     "  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  a  sight  for  a  picture;  the 
Squire  with  his  hands  under  his  coat,  dancing  a  lit  tic  in 
rage,  his  face  crimson  ;  the  <jther  (piite  still,  holding  his  hat 
and  gold  spectacles,  and  looking  at  him  in  wonder. 

"You  don't  know  what  I  mean  !  When  you  (confessed  v.'ith 
your  last  breath  that  you  had  robbed  me  of  my  pocket-book!" 

"I  confessed — I  have  not  souirht  to  conceal — that  I  have 


GOING  xrrROUGn  the  tunnel.  IT'i 

robbed  the  ground  of  this  rare  fei-ii,"  said  the  man,  handling 
carefully  the  green-stuff  in  tlie  black  bag.  "  I  have  not  rob- 
bed you,  or  any  one,  of  anything  else," 

The  tone,  simple,  quiet,  self-contained,  put  the  Squire  in 
amaze,     lie  stood  staring, 

"  Are  you  a  fool  ?  "  he  asked,  "  AVhat  do  you  suppose  I  have 
to  do  with  your  rubbishing  ferns?" 

"  Nay,  I  supposed  you  owned  them  ;  that  is,  owned  the  land. 
Yoi\  led  me  to  believe  so,  in  saying  I  had  robbed  you." 

""What  I've  lost  is  a  pocket-book, with  ten  five-pound  bank- 
notes in  it;  I  lost  it  in  the  train;  it  must  have  been  taken  as 
we  came  through  the  tunnel ;  and  you  sat  next  but  one  to  me," 
reiteraled  the  Squire. 

Tlie  man  put  on  his  hat  and  glasses.  "  I  am  a  geologist 
and  botanist,  sir.  I  came  here  after  this  plant  to-day— having 
Been  it  yesterday,  but  I  had  not  then  my  tools  with  me.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  the  pocket-book  and  bank-notes." 

So  that  was  another  mistake,  for  the  botanist  turned  out  of 
his  pockets  a  heap  of  letters  directed  to  him,  and  a  big  book 
he  liad  been  reading  in  the  train,  a  treatise  on  botany,  to  prove 
who  he  was.  And,  as  if  to  leave  no  looj)hole  of  doubt,  one 
stepped  up  who  knew  him  and  assured  the  Squire  there  was 
not  a  more  learned  man  in  his  line,  no,  nor  one  more  respect- 
ed, in  the  three  kingdoms.  The  Squiie  shook  him  by  tlie  hand 
in  apologizing,  and  told  him  v^-e  had  some  valuable  ferns  near 
Dyke  Manor,  if  he  would  come  and  see  them. 

Like  Patience  (m  a  monument,  when  we  got  back,  sat  the 
lady,  waiting  to  see  the  prisoner  brought  in.  Her  face  would 
have  made  a  picture  too,  when  she  discovered  the  upshot,  and 
the  hot  Squire  and  the  gold  spectacles  walking  side  by  side 
iu  friendly  talk. 

"  I  think  still  he  must  have  got  it,"  she  said  shai-ply. 

"No,  madam,"  answered  the  Squire,  "Whoever  may  have 
taken  it,  it  was  not  he," 

"  Theii  there's  only  one  man,  and  that  is  he  whom  you  have 

let  go  in  the  train,"  she  decisively  returned.     "  1  tiiought  hia 
8* 


178  GOING    THROUGH    THE   TUNNEL. 

fidi2;etj  inovements  were  not  put  on  for  nothing.  He  had 
sc'ciirecl  the  pocket-book  somewhere,  and  then  made  a  show  of 
olierini:;  to  be  searched.     Ah,  ha  !  " 

And  the  Squire  veered  round  again  at  this  suggestion,  and 
began  to  suspect  he  had  been  doubly  cheated.  First,  out  of 
his  money,  next  out  of  his  suspicions.  One  only  thing  in  tlie 
wliole  bother  seemed  clear ;  and  that  was,  that  the  notes  and 
case  had  gone  for  good.     As,  in  point  of  fact  they  had. 


We  were  on  the  chain-pier  at  Brighton,  Tod  and  I.  It  was 
about  eiglit  or  nine  months  after.  I  had  put  my  arms  on  the 
high  rails  at  the  end,  looking  at  a  pleasure-party  sailing  by. 
Tod,  next  to  me,  was  bewailing  his  ill-fortune  in  not  possess- 
ing a  yacht  and  opportunities  of  cruising  in  it. 

"  I  tell  you  No.     I  don't  want  to  be  made  sea  sick." 

The  words  came  from  somebody  behind  us.  It  seemed 
almost  as  though  they  were  spoken  in  reference  to  Tod's  wish 
for  a  yacht  to  cruise  in.  But  it  was  not  that  that  made  me 
turn  sluii-ply  round  ;  it  was  the  sound  of  the  voice,  for  I 
thought  I  recognized  it. 

Yes  :  there  she  was.  The  lady  who  had  been  with  us  in  the 
can-iage  that  day.  The  dog  was  not  with  her  now,  but  her 
hair  was  more  amazing  than  ever,  enough  of  it  hanging  down 
behind  to  make  a  horse's  tail.  She  did  not  see  me.  As  I 
turned,  she  turned,  and  began  to  walk  slowly  back,  arui-iu-arm 
with  a  gentleman.  And  to  see  him — that  is,  to  see  them 
together  — made  me  open  my  eyes.  For  it  was  the  lord  who 
had  ti-avelled  with  us. 

"'  Look  Tod  !  "  I  said,  and  told  him  in  a  word  who  they  were. 

"  What  the  deuce  do  they  know  of  each  other  ?  "  crird  Tod 
with  a  frown,  for  he  felt  angry  every  time  the  thing  was 
referred  to.  Not  for  the  loss  of  the  mone}',  but  for  what  he 
called  the  stupidity  of  us  all ;  saying  always  had  he  been  there, 
he  should  have  detected  the  thief  at  once. 

1  sauntered  after  them  :  why  I  wanted  tc  learn  which  of  the 


GOING    THROUGH    THK    TTJNNEL.  179 

Jords  he  was,  I  cati't  tell,  for  loi-ds  are  iminerons  enoii^^h,  but 
I  had  had  a  curiosity  upon  the  point  ever  since.  They  encoun' 
tered  some  people  and  were  standing  to  speak ;  three  ladies, 
and  a  fellow  in  a  black  glazed  hat  with  a  piece  of  green  ribbon 
round  it. 

"  I  was  trying  to  induce  my  wife  to  take  a  sail,"  the  lord 
was  saying,  "  but  she  won't.  She  is  not  a  very  good  sailor 
unless  the  sea  has  its  calmest  behaviour  on." 

"  Will  you  go  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Mowbray  ?"  asked  the  man 
in  the  glazed  hat,  who  spoke  and  looked  like  a  gentleman. 
"  I  will  promise  yon  pei'fect  cahnness  ;  I  am  weather-wise; 
and  can  assure  you  this  little  wind  will  have  gone  down  before 
night,  leaving  us  without  a  breath  of  air." 

"  I  will  go  :  on  condition  that  your  assurance  shall  prove 
correct." 

"  All  right.     You  of  course  will  come,  Mowbray  ?  " 

The  lord  nodded.     "  Yery  happy." 

"  When  do  you  leave  Brighton,  Mr.  Mowbray  ?  "  asked  one 
of  the  ladies. 

*'  I  don't  know  exactly.     Not  for  some  days." 

<'  A  muff  as  usual,  Johnny,"  whispered  Tod.  "  That  man 
is  no  lord  :  he  is  a  Mr.  Mowbray." 

"  But,  Tod,  he  is  the  lord.  It  is  the  one  that  travelled  with 
us ;  there's  no  mistake  about  that.  Lords  can't  put  off  their 
titles  as  parsons  can  :  do  you  suppose  his  servant  would  have 
called  him  '  my  lord,'  if  he  had  not  been  one  ?  " 

"  At  least  there  is  no  mistake  that  these  people  are  calHng 
him  Mr.  Mowbray  now." 

That  was  true.  It  was  equally  true  that  they  were  calling 
her  Mrs.  Mowbray.  My  ears  had  been  as  quick  as  Tod's,  and 
I  don't  deny  I  was  puzzled.  They  turned  to  come  up  the  pier 
again  with  the  people,  and  the  lady  saw  me  standing  there 
with  Tod.  Saw  me  looking  at  her,  too,  and  I  think  she  did 
not  relish  it,  for  she  took  a  step  backward  like  one  startled, 
and  then  stared  me  full  in  the  face,  as  if  asking  who  I  might 
be.     I  lifted  my  hat 


180  GOING    THROUGH    THE    TUNNEL. 

There  was  no  response.  In  another  inuiiient  she  and  het 
Jiusband  were  walking  qnickly  down  the  pier  together,  and 
the  cthci-  party  went  on  to  the  top  quietly.  A  man  in  a  tweed 
snit  and  l»i()wn  hat  drawn  low  on  his  eyes,  was  standing  hack 
•with  his  arms  I'cAded,  looking  after  the  two  with  a  qneor 
smile  npon  his  face.     T(;d  marked  it  and  spoke. 

''■Do  \on  ha[)pi  n  to  know  that  gentleman  ?" 

'•Yes,  I  do,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Is  he  a  pcer'^  " 

"On  occasion." 

"  On  occasion  ! "  repeated  Tod.  "  I  have  a  reason  for 
asking,"  he  added  ;  "  do  not  think  me  impertinent." 

"  Been  swindled  out  of  anything?"  asked  the  man,  coolly. 

"  My  father  was,  some  months  ago.  lie  lost  a  pocket-book 
with  fifty  pounds  in  it  in  a  railway  carriage.  Those  people 
were  both  in  it,  but  not  then  acquainted  with  each  other." 

"  Oh,  weren't  they  !  "  said  the  man. 

•'  No,  they  were  not,"  I  put  in,  "  for  I  was  there.  He  was  a 
lord  then." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  man,  "  and  had  a  servant  in  livery  no  doubt, 
who  came  up  my-lording  him  without  occasion  every  other 
minute.  He  is  a  member  of  the  swell-mob  ;  one  of  tlie  clev- 
erest of  the  gentleman  fraternity  of  them,  and  the  one  who 
acts  as  servant  is  another." 

"  And  the  lady  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  is  a  third.  They  have  been  working  in  concert  for 
two  (u- three  years  now ;  and  will  give  us  trouble  yet  before 
their  career  is  stopped.  But  for  being  cantionsly  clever,  we 
should  have  had  tliem  long  ago.  And  so  they  did  not  know 
each  other  in  the  train !  I  daresay  not !  " 

The  man  spoke  with  quiet  autliority.  lie  was  a  detective 
officer  come  down  from  London  to  Brighton  tiiat  morning  ; 
whether  for  a  private  sanitary  trip,  or  on  business,  he  did  not 
Bay.     I  related  to  him  what  had  passed  in  the  train. 

"  Ay,"  said  he,  after  listening.  "  They  contrived  to  put  the 
lamp  out  before  starting.     The  lady  took  the   pocket-book 


GOTNG  THROUGH  THE  TUNNEL.  181 

during  the  commotion  she  caused  the  dog  to  make,  and  the 
lord  received  it  from  her  hand  when  he  gave  her  back  tlie 
doGT.  Cleverlv  done  !  lie  had  it  about  him,  vouno-  sir,  when 
he  got  out  at  the  next  station.  8he  waited  to  be  searchedj 
and  to  throw  the  scent  off.  Yer}'  ingenious:  but  they'll  be  a 
little  too  nnich  some  fine  day." 

"  Can't  you  take  them  up  ?  "  demanded  Tod. 

"No." 

"I  will  accuse  them  of  it,"  he  haughtily  said.  "If  I  meet 
them  again  on  this  pier " 

"  Which  you  won't  do  to-day,"  interrupted  the  man. 

"  I  heard  them  sav  they  were  not  going  for  some  days." 

"  Ah,  but  tliev  have  seen  vou  now.  And  I  think — I'm  not 
quite  sure — that  he  saw  me.    They'll  be  off  by  the  next  train." 

"Who  are  tlieyf''  asked  Tod,  pointing  to  the  top  of  the 
pier. 

"  Unsuspicious  people  whose  acqtiaintance  they  have  casu- 
ally made  here.  Yes,  an  hour  or  two  will  see  Brighton  quit 
of  the  pair." 

And  it  was  so.  A  train  was  starting  within  an  hour,  and 
Tod  and  I  galloped  to  the  station.  There  they  were:  in  a 
first  class  carriage  :  not  apparently  knowing  each  other,  I 
verily  believe,  for  he  sat  at  one  door  and  she  at  the  other,  pas- 
senfj-ers  dividing-  them. 

"  Lambs  between  two  wolves,"  remarked  Tod.  "  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  warn  the  people  of  the  S(^rt  of  company  they 
are  in.     Would  it  be  actionable,  Johnny  ?  " 

The  train  moved  off  as  he  was  speaking.  And  may  I  never 
write  another  word,  if  I  did  not  catch  sight  of  the  servant* 
man  and  his  cockale  in  the  carriage  next  behind  them! 


IX. 


DICK  MITCIIEL. 


N^X? 


^  ^     DID  not  relate  this  story  by  my  own  wish.     To  my 
Kv'^     mind  there's  nothino^  much  in  it  to  rehite.     At  the 


v^c-  time  it  was  written  the  newspajjers  were  s(jiiahl)liiig 
about  farmers'  boys  and  field  labour  and  political 
economy.  "  And,"  says  a  gentleman  to  me, "  as  you  were  at  the 
top  and  tail  of  the  tiling  when  it  happened,  and  are  well  up  in 
the  subject  generally,  Johnny  Ludlow,  you  may  as  well  make  a 
paper  of  it."    That  was  no  other  than  the  surgeon — Duffham. 

About  two  miles  from  Dyke  Manor  across  the  fields,  but  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  that  of  the  Court  where  the  Stei'lings 
lived.  Elm  Farm  was  situated.  Mr.  Jacobson  lived  in  it,  as 
his  father  had  lived  before  him.  The  property  was  not  the'r 
own  ;  they  rented  it :  it  was  fine  land,  and  Jacobson  had  the 
reputation  of  being  the  best  farmer  for  miles  around.  Being 
a  wealthy  man,  he  had  no  need  to  s])are  money  on  house  or 
land,  and  did  not  spare  it.  lie  and  the  Squire  were  about 
the  same  age,  and  liad  been  cronies  all  their  lives. 

Not  to  go  into  extraneous  matter,  I  may  as  well  say  at  once 
that  one  of  the  labourers  on  Jacobson's  farm  was  a  man 
named  John  Mitchel.  He  lived  in  a  cottage  not  far  from  us 
— a  poor  place  of  two  rooms  and  a  wash-house;  but  they  call 
it  back'us  there — and  had  to  walk  iu>arlv  two  miles  to  his 
work  of  a  morning.  Mitchel  was  a  steady  man  of  thirty-five, 
with  a  round  head  and  not  any  great  amount  of  brains  inside  it. 
Not  but  what  he  had  as  much  brains  as  many  labourers  have,  and 
quite  enough  for  the  kind  of  work  his  life  was  passed  iu.    There 


PICK    MITCH  EL.  183 

were  six  cliildren  ;  the  eldest.  Dick,  ten  years  old  ;  and  most 
of  them  had  stiaw-colonred  hair,  the  jiattern  of  their  father's. 
Just  before  the  tui-n  of  harvest  one  hot  summer,  John 
!Mitchel  presented  himself  at  Mr.  Jacobson's  house  in  a  clean 
smock  frock,  and  asked  a  favour.  It  was,  that  his  boy,  Dick, 
should  be  taken  on  as  plonghboy.  Old  Jacobson  objected  ; 
saying  the  boy  was  too  young  and  little.  Little  he  might  be, 
Mitciiel  answered,  but  not  too  young— warn't  he  ten  ^  The 
lad  had  been  about  the  farm  fur  some  time  as  scareci'ow  : 
that  Is,  employed  to  keep  the  birds  away:  and  had  a  shilling  a 

week  for  it.     Old  Jacobson  stood  to  what  he  said,  however, 

and  little  Dick  did  not  get  his  promotion. 

But  old  Jacobson  got  no  peace.  Every  opportunity  Mit<diel 
could  get,  or  dare  to  use,  he  began  again,  praying  that  Dick 
might  be  tried.  The  boy  was  "cute,"  he  said,  strong  enough 
also,  though  little  ;  and  if  the  master  liked  to  pay  him  only 
foui-pence  a  day,  they'd  be  grateful  for  it;  'twould  be  a  help, 
and  was  wanted  badly.  All  of  no  use :  old  Jacobson  still  said 
Kg. 

One  afternoon  during  this  time,  we  started  to  go  to  the 
Jacobsons'  after  a  one  o'clock  dinner, — I  and  Mrs.  Todhetley. 
She  was  fond  of  going  over  to  an  early  tea  there,  but  not  by  her- 
self, for  part  of  the  near  way  across  the  fields  was  lonely.  Con- 
sidering that  she  had  been  used  to  the  country,  she  was  a  i-egular 
cow^ard  as  to  lonely  walks,  expecting  to  see  a  ti'amp  or  a  robber 
at  every  coi-ner.  In  passing  the  row  of  cottages  in  Duck  Lane, 
for  that's  the  road  we  took,  we  saw  Hannah  Mitchel  leaninor 
over  the  footboard  of  her  door  to  look  after  her  children,  who 
■were  playing  near  the  pond  in  the  sunshine  with  a  lot  more  ; 
quite  a  heap  of  little  reptiles,  all  badly  clad  and  as  dirty  as  pigs. 
Other  labourers'  dwellings  stood  within  hail,  and  the  children 
seemed  to  spring  up  in  the  place  thicker  than  wheat ;  Mrs. 
Mitchel's  was  quite  a  small  family,  reckoning  by  comparison, 
but  how  the  six  got  clothed  and  fed  was  a  mystery,  out  j')f 
Mitchel's  wages  of  ten  shillings  a  week.  It  was  thought  good 
pay.     Old  Jacobson  was  liberal,  as  farmers  go.     He  paid  the 


1S4  DICK    MITCHET.. 

best  Avaijes ;  cave  all  his  labourers  a  stuniiiiif'  hUr  T)orfioTi  o\ 
home-fed  fresh  [)()rk  at  Christinas,  with  fuel  to  cook  it:  and  lus 
wife  was  ir<)od  to  the  women  when  thev  fell  sick. 

Mi-s.  Todhetley  stopjied  to  speak.  "  Is  it  yon,  Hannah 
Mitchel  'i     Are  you  i)retty  well  ?  " 

Hannah  Mitchel  stood  npi-ii);ht  and  drojiped  a  curtsey.  Sha 
liad  a  covei'ed-up  bundle  in  her  arms,  which  proved  to  be  the 
baby,  then  not  much  above  a  fortnight  old, 

"  Dear  me  !  it's  very  early  for  it  to  be  about,"  said  Mrs  Tod- 
hetley, touching  its  little  red  cheeks.     "  And  for  you  too." 

"  It  is,  ma'am;  but  what's  to  be  done?"  was  the  answer. 
"  When  there's  only  a  pair  of  hands  for  everything,  one  can't 
afh^i'd  to  lie  by  long." 

"  You  seem  but  poorly,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetley,  looking  at 
her.  She  was  a  thin,  dark-haired  woman,  with  a  sensible 
face.  J>efore  she  married  Mitchel,  she  had  lived  under-nui'se 
in  a  gentlenum's  family,  where  she  picked  up  some  idea  of 
good  manners. 

"  I  be  feeling  a  bit  stronger,  thank  you,"  said  the  woman. 
"  Stren<i:th  don't  come  back  to  one  in  a  dav,  ma'am." 

The  Mitcliel  children  were  sidling  up,  attracted  by  the 
siirht  of  the  lad  v.     Four  youno'  scrubs  in  tattered  fjarment?. 

"  I  can't  keep  'em  decent,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  sigh  of 
apology.  "  I've  not  got  no  soap  nor  no  cl(jthes  to  do  it  with. 
They  come  on  so  fast,  and  make  such  a  many,  one  after 
another,  that  it's  getting  a  hard  pull  to  live  anyhow." 

Looking  at  tliechildi'cn  ;  remembering  that,  with  the  father 
and  mother,  there  were  eight  mouths  to  feed,  and  that  the 
man's  waives  were  the  ten  shillinirs  weekly  all  the  year  round 
(but  there  were  seasons  when  he  did  over-woi-k  and  earned 
more),  i\rrs.  Todhetley  might  well  give  her  assenting  answer 
with  an  emphatic  nod. 

''  We  was  hoping  to  get  on  a  bit  better,"  resumed  the  wife  ; 
"but  Mitchel  he  says  the  master  don't  seem  to  like  to  listen. 
A'most  a  three  weeks  it  be  now  since  Mitchel  first  asked  it  him  " 

"  In  what  way  better  ?  " 


DICK   Mn'CHEL.  185 

"  By  a  putting  little  Dick  to  the  plough,  ma  am,  lie  gets  a 
shilling  a  week  now,  he'd  got  two  then,  perhaps  three,  and 
'twould  be  such  a  help  to  us.  Some  o'  tlie  fai-mers  gives 
f<riirpence  half -penny  a  day  to  a  ploughI)oy,  some  as  much  as 
sixpence.  The  master  he  bain't  one  of  the  near  ones;  but 
Dick  be  little  of  his  age,  he  don't  grow  fast,  and  Mitchel  telled 
the  master  he'd  take  fourpence  a  day  and  be  thankful  for't." 

Thoughts  were  crowding  into  Mrs.  Todhetley's  mind — as 
she  mentioned  afterwards.  A  child  of  ten  ought  to  be 
learning  and  playing;  not  working  from  twelve  to  fourteen 
hours  a  day. 

''  It  would  be  a  hard  life  f(>r  him." 

"  True,  ma'am,  at  first ;  but  he'd  get  used  to  it.  I  could 
have  wished  the  summer  was  coming  on  instead  o'  the  winter 
— 'twould  be  easier  for  him  to  begin  upon.  "Winter  mornings 
be  so  dark  and  cold." 

"  Why  not  let  him  wait  until  the  next  winter's  over?" 

The  vei-y  suggestion  brougJit  tears  into  Hannah  Mitchel's 
eyes.  "  You'd  never  say  it  ma'am,  if  you  knew  how  had  liis 
wages  is  wanted  and  the  help  the3''d  be.  The  older  chiklren 
grows,  the  more  they  wants  to  eat;  and  we've  got  six  of  'em 
now.  AVhat  would  you,  ma'am? — they  don't  bi'ing  food  into 
the  world  with  'em;  they  must  help  to  eai-n  it  for  themselves 
as  qui(;k  as  anybody  can  be  got  to  let  'em  earn  it.  Some- 
times I  wonder  why  God  should  send  such  lai'ge  families  to 
us  poor  peo])le." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  was  turning  to  go  on  her  way,  when  the 
woman  in  a  timid  voice  said,  "Might  she  make  bold  to  ask,  if 
she  or  Squii-e  Todhetley  would  say  a  good  word  to  Mr.  Jac(^b- 
BjQ  about  the  boy  ;  that  it  would  be  just  a  merciful  kindness." 

"  "We  should  not  like  to  interfere,"  replied  Mrs.  Todhetley. 
"In  any  case  I  coukl  not  do  it  with  a  good  heart :  1  think  it 
would  be  so  hard  upon  the  poor  little  boy." 

"  Starving's  harder,  ma'am." 

The  tears  came  running  down  her  cheek  with  the  answer] 
and  they  won  over  Mrs.  Todhetley. 


186  DICK   ^nTCHEL. 

Crossing  the  high,  crooked,  awkward  stile—  over  which^ 
in  coming  the  other  way,  if  people  were  not  careful  they 
generally  pitched  over  with  their  noses  into  Duck  Lane  mud 
— we  found  ourselves  in  what  was  called  the  square  paddock — 
a  huge  ])iece  of  land,  ploughed  last  year.  The  wheat  had  been 
carried  from  it  only  this  afternoon,  and  the  gleaners  in  their 
Col  ton  bonnets  were  coming  in.  On,  from  thence,  across  other 
fields  and  stiles  ;  we  went  a  little  out  of  our  way  to  call  it  Glebe 
Cottage — a  small  white  house  that  lay  back  amidst  the  fields 
■ — and  inquire  after  old  Mrs.  Parry,  who  had  just  had  a  stroke. 

AVho  should  be  at  Ehn  Farm,  when  we  got  in,  but  the 
surgeon,  DufHiam  :  come  on  there  from  paying  his  daily  visit 
to  iMrs.  Parry.  He  and  old  Jacobson  were  in  the  gi-een-house, 
looking  at  the  grapes:  a  famous  crop  they  had  that  year; 
not  ripe  yet.  Mrs.  Jacobson  sat  at  the  open  window  of  the 
long  park)ur,  nuiking  a  new  jelly-bag.  She  was  a  pleasant- 
faced  old  lady,  Avith  small  flat  silver  curls  and  a  net  cap. 

Of  course  they  got  talking  about  little  Dick  Mitchel.  Duff- 
ham  knew  the  boy  ;  seeing  that  when  a  doctor  was  wanted  at 
the  Mitchels',  it  was  he  that  attended.  Mrs.  Todhetlev  told 
exactly  what  had  passed :  and  old  Jacobson — a  tall,  portly 
man.  with  a  healthy  colour — gi-ew  nearly  purple  in  the  face, 
disputing. 

Dick  Mitchel  would  be  of  as  good  as  no  use  for  the  team, 
he  said,  and  the  carters  put  shauiefully  upon  those  young 
ones.  In  another  year  the  boy  would  be  stronger  and  bigger. 
Perhaps  he  would  take  him  then. 

"  For  my  part,  I  cannot  tjiink  how  the  mothers  can  like 
their  poor  boys  to  go  out  so  young,"  cried  the  old  lady,  looking 
up  i'lom  her  flannel  bag.  "A  ploughboy's  life  is  very  hard 
in  winter." 

"  Hannah  Mitchel  says  it  has  to  l)e  one  of  two  things — early 
work  or  starving,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetley.  "And  that's  p>retty 
true." 

"  Labourers'  l)oys  are  born  to  it,  ma'am,  and  so  it  comes  easj 
to  'em :  at  skinning  does  to  eels,"  cried  Dufi'ham  quaintly. 


DICK   MITCHEL.  187 

"  Poor  things,  yes.  But  it  is  very  hard  upon  the  children, 
The  worst  is,  all  the  labourers  seem  to  have  no  end  of  them. 
Hannah  Mitchel  has  just  said  she  sometimes  wonders  why 
God  should  send  so  many  to  poor  people." 

This  was  an  unfortunate  remark.  To  hear  the  two  irentle- 
men  laugh,  you'd  have  thought  they  were  at  a  Christmas  panto- 
mime.    Old  Jacobson  brought  himself  up  in  a  kind  of  passion. 

AVhat  business,  in  the  name  of  all  that  was  imprudent,  had 
these  poor  people  to  have  their  troops  of  children  ?  he  asked. 
They  knew  quite  well  they  could  not  feed  them  ;  that  the 
young  ones  would  be  three  parts  starved  in  their  earlier  years, 
and  in  their  later  ones  come  to  the  parish  and  be  a  burden 
on  the  community.  Look  at  this  same  man,  Mitchel.  Ilia 
grandfather,  a  poor  miserable  labourer,  had  a  troop  of 
children  ;  Mitchel's  father  had  a  troop,  twelve  ;  he,  Mitchel, 
had  six,  and  seenied  to  be  going  on  fair  to  have  six  more. 
There  was  no  reason  in  it.  Why  couldn't  they  be  content 
with  a  moderate  number,  three  or  four,  that  might  get  a 
chance  of  being  found  room  fcjr  in  the  world  ?  It  was  not 
much  less  than  a  crime  for  these  men  next  door  to  paupers 
themselves,  to  launch  their  tens  and  their  dozens  of  boys  and 
girls  into  life,  and  then  turn  round  and  say.  Why  does  God 
send  them  ?     Kice  kind  of  logic  that  was  ! 

And  so  he  kept  on,  for  a  good  half  hour,  Duffham  helping 
him.  Ife  brought  up  the  French  peasantry:  saying  our  folks 
ought  to  take  a  lesson  fi-om  them.  You  don't  see  whole 
flocks  of  children  over  there,  cried  Duffham.  One,  or  two, 
or  at  most  three,  would  be  found  to  comprise  the  numl)er  of  a 
family.  And  why  ?  Becanse  the  French  were  a  prudent  race. 
They  knew  there  was  no  provision  for  superfluous  children  ; 
no  house-room  at  home,  or  food,  or  clothing;  and  no  ])arish 
pay  to  fall  back  upon  :  they  knew  that  however  many  children 
they  had  they  must  provide  for  them  :  they  didn't  set  up, 
themselves,  a  regiment  of  little  famishing  mouths,  and  then 
charge  it  on  heaven  ;  they  were  not  so  reckless  and  wicked. 
Yes,  he  must  repeat  it^  wicked :  and  the  two  ladies  listening 


188  DICK    MITOIIET,. 

Would  endorse  the  word  if  they  knew  half  tlie  deprivation 
and  the  sufferings  these  poor  small  mortals  were  born  to;  he 
6u\v  enouo-h  of  it,  havin<r  to  be  often  amidst  them. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  tlie  parents  this,  doctor?  " 

Tell  them  !  returned  Duffham.  He  had  told  them  ;  told 
them  till  his  touirue  was  tired. 

Any  way,  the  little  things  were  grievously  to  be  pitied, 
was  what  the  two  ladies  made  answer. 

'"  I  have  often  wished  it  was  not  a  sin  to  drown  the  super 
fiiious  little  mites  as  we  do  kittens,"  wound  up  Duff. 

One  of  the  ladies  dropped  the  jelly-bag,  the  other  shrieked 
out,  "  Oh !  •" 

"  For  their  sakes,"  he  added,  "  It's  true,  upon  my  word 
and  honour.  Of  all  wrongs  the  world  sees,  never  was  there 
a  worse  wrong  than  the  one  inflicted  on  these  inoffensive  chil- 
dren by  the  parents,  in  bringing  them  into  it.  God  help  the 
little  wretches !  man  can't  do  much." 

And  so  they  talked  on.  The  upshot  was,  that  old  Jacobson 
stood  to  his  word,  and  declined  to  make  Dick  Mitchel  a 
ploughboy  yet  awhile. 

We  had  tea  at  four  o'clock — at  which  fashionable  peo])le 
may  laugh  ;  considering  that  it  was  the  real  tea,  not  the  sham 
oric  lately  come  into  custom.  Mrs.  Todhetley  wanted  to  get 
home  by  dayliglit,  and  the  summer  evenings  were  shortening. 
Never  was  brown  bread-and-bntter  so  sweet  as  the  Jacobsons' : 
we  used  to  say  it  every  time  we  went ;  and  the  home-baked 
rusks  wei'e  better  than  Shrewsbury  cake.  They  nuide 
Mrs.  Todhetley  take  two  or  three  in  her  bag  for  Hugh  and 
Lena. 

Old  Duff  went  with  us  across  the  first  field,  turnii'.g  ( f[ 
there  to  take  the  short  cut  to  his  houie.  It  was  a  waini, 
still,  lovely  evening,  the  yellow  nu)on  rising.  The  gleanera 
were  busy  in  the  square  paddock  :  Mrs.  Todhetley  spoke  to 
BdUie  as  we  passed.  At  the  other  end,  near  the  crooked  stile, 
t\v(  urchins  stood  fighting,  the  bigger  one  trying  to  take  a 
unall  armful  of  wheat  from  the  other.     I  went  to  the  rescue, 


DICK    MITCHEL.  1S9 

and  the  marauder  made  off  as  fast  as  his  small  bare  feet  would 
caiTV  him. 

"  lie  haven't  gleaned,  hisself,  and  wants  to  take  mine,"'  said 
the  little  one,  casting  up  his  big  grej  eyes  to  us  in  appeal 
thi'ough  the  tears,  lie  was  a  delicate-looking  pale-faced  boy 
of  nine,  or  so,  with  light  hair. 

"Very  naughty  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetley.  "What's 
y>  lur  name  ? " 

"  It's  Dick,  lady." 

"  Dick— what  T' 

"  Dick  Mitchel." 

"  Dear  me — I  thought  I  had  seen  the  face,"  said  Mrs.  Tod- 
lietley  to  me.  "  But  there  are  so  many  boys  about  here, 
Johnny  ;  and  they  all  look  pretty  much  alike.  How  old  are 
you,  Dick?" 

"  I'm  over  ten,"  answered  Dick,  M'ith  an  emphasis  on  the 
over.  Children  catch  up  ideas,  and  no  doubt  he  was  as  eager 
as  tlie  parents  coul  !  be  to  impress  on  the  world  his  fitness,  in 
years,  to  be  a  phmghboy. 

''  How  is  it  that  von  have  been  o-leanino;   Dick  ? " 

"  Mother  couldn't,  'cause  o'  the  babby.  They  give  me  leave 
to  come  on  since  four  o'<dock  :  and  I've  got  all  this." 

Dick  looked  at  the  stile  and  then  at  his  bundle  of  wheat, 
6o  I  took  it  while  he  got  over.  As  we  went  on  down  the  lane, 
Mrs.  Todhetley  inquired  M'hether  he  wanted  to  be  a  plough- 
boy.  Oh  yes  !  he  answered,  his  face  lighting  up,  as  if  the  sit- 
uation offered  some  glorious  prospect.  It  'ud  be  two  shilling 
a  week ;  happen  more  ;  and  mothei-  said  as  he  and  Totty  and 
Sam  and  the  t'others  'ud  get  treacle  to  their  bread  on  Sundays 
then.     Apparently  Mrs.  Mitchel  knew  how  to  diplomatize. 

"  I'll  give  him  one  of  the  rusks,  I  think,  Johnny,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Todhetley. 

But  while  she  was  getting  it  from  the  bag,  he  ran  in  with 
his  wheat.  She  called  to  him  to  come  back,  and  gave  him 
one.  His  mother  had  taken  the  wheat  from  him  ;  she  looked 
out  at  the  door  with  it  in  her  hands.     Seeing  her,  Mi'S.  Tod- 


190  tUCS.    MITCIIEL. 

hetley  went  np,  and  said  Mr,  Jacobson  would  not  at  present 
do  anything;.  The  next  minute  Mitchel  appeared  pulling  at 
his  straw  luiir. 

"It  is  hard  lines,"  lie  said,  humbly,  "when  the  lad's  of  a''  . 
age  to  be  a  earning,  and  the  master  can't  be  got  to  take  him 
on.     And  me  to  ha'  worked  on  the  same  farm,  man  and  boy ; 
and  father  afore  me." 

"  Mr.  Jacobson  thinks  the  boy  would  not  be  strong  enough 
for  tlie  work." 

"Not  strong:  enouijh,  and  him  risinoj  eleven!''  exclaimed 
Mitchel,  as  if  the  words  were  some  dreadful  aspersion  on 
Dick.  "  How  can  he  be  stronsi:  if  he  ffets  no  work  to  make 
him  strono;,  ma'am?  Streno-th  comes  with  tlie  workini?; — and 
nobody  don't  oughtn't  to  know  that  better  nor  the  master. 
Anyhow,  if  he  don^t  take  him,  it'll  be  cruel  hard  lines  for 
us.'' 

Dick  was  outside,  dividing  the  rusk  with  a  small  girl  and 
boy,  all  three  seated  in  the  lane,  and  looking  as  happy  over 
the  rusk  as  if  they  had  been  children  in  a  fairy  tale.  "  It's 
Totty,"  said  he,  pausing  in  the  work  of  division  to  speak,  "  and 
that  'un's  Sam."  Mrs.  Todhctley  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  rinding  two  more  rusks,  which  made  one  apiece. 

"  He  is  a  good-natured  little  fellow,  Johnny,"  she  remarked 
as  we  went  along.  "  Intelligent,  too:  in  that  he  takes  after 
his  mother." 

"  Would  it  be  wrong  to  let  him  go  on  the  farm  as  plough- 
boy?" 

,  "  Jolmny,  I  don't  know.  I'd  rather  not  giv^e  an  opinion," 
she  added,  looking  right  before  her  into  the  moon,  as  if  seek- 
iuir  for  one  there.  "Of  course  he  is  not  old  enouijh  or  bijj 
enough,  practically  speaking ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  where 
there  arc  so  many  mouths  to  feed,  it  seems  hard  not  to  let  him 
earn  money  if  he  can  earn  it.  Tlie  root  of  the  evil  lies  in 
there  being  so  many  mouths — as  was  said  at  Mr.  Jacobson'i 
this  afternoon," 


DICK    MITCHEL.  191 

It  was  winter  before  I  heard  anvtliinof  more  of  the  matter, 

t/  CD 

Tod  and  I  got  home  for  Christmas.  One  day  in  January,  when 
the  skies  were  h:)wering,  and  the  air  cold  with  a  raw  coldness, 
but  not  frosty,  I  was  crossing  a  field  on  old  Jacobson's  land 
then  being  ploughed.  The  three  brown  horses  at  the  woik 
were  as  fine  as  ye'd  wish  to  see. 

'*  You'll  catch  it  smart  on  that  there  skull  o'  yourn,  if  ye 
doan't  keep  their  yeads  straight,  ye  young  divil." 

The  salutation  was  from  the  man  at  the  tail  of  the  plough 
to  the  boy  at  the  head  of  the  fii-st  horse.  Looking  round,  I 
saw  little  Mitchel.  The  horses  stopped,  and  I  went  up  to  him. 
Hall,  the  ploughman,  took  the  opportunity  to  beat  his  anns. 
1  daresay  they  were  cold  enough. 

"  So  3'onr  ambition  is  attained,  is  it  Dick  ?  Are  yon  satisfied  ? " 

Dick  seemed  not  to  nnderstand.  He  was  taller,  bnt  tha 
face  looked  pinched,  and  there  was  never  a  smile  on  it. 

"  Do  you  like  being  a  ploughboy  ?  " 

'•'  It's  hard  and  cold.     Hard  alwavs  ;  frightful  cold  of  a 


moi-nmg. 


"  How's  Totty  ?  " 

The  face  lighted  up  just  a  little.  Totty  weren't  any  better, 
but  she  didu't  die;  Jimmy  did.  Which  was  Jimmy? — Oh, 
Jimmy  was  after  Kanny,  next  to  the  babby. 

"  What  did  Jimmy  die  of  ?  " 

AVhooping-cough.  They'd  all  been  bad  but  him — Dick. 
Mother  said  he'd  had  it  when  he  was  no  older  nor  the  babby. 

Whether  the  whooping-cough  had  caused  an  undue  ab3(jrp- 
tion  of  Mitchel's  means,  certain  it  was,  Dick  looked  famished. 
His  cheeks  were  thin,  his  hands  blue, 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Dick  ?  " 

No,  he  had  not  been  ill.     'Twas  Jimmy  and  the  t'others. 

"He's  the  incapablest  little  villain  I  ever  had  put  me  to  do 
with,"  struck  in  the  ploughman,  stilling  his  arms  to  spealc 
"More  lazy  nor  a  fattening  pig," 

"  Are  you  lazy,  Dick  ?  " 

L  think  an  eager  disclaimer  was  coming  out,  but  the  boy 


192  DICK   MITCHET>. 

romemberecl  in  time  who  was  present — his  master,  the  plonjjh* 
mail. 

"Xot  lazy  wilful,"  he  said,  bursting  iiitu  tears.  "  I  does  my 
best :  mother  tells  me  to." 

"  Take  that,  you  young  sniveller,"  said  Hall,  dealing  him  a 
good  sound  slap  on  the  left  cheek.  "And  now  gt>  on:  ye 
know  ye've  g.)t  this  lot  to  go  through  to-day." 

lie  caught  hold  of  the  plough,  and  Dick  stretched  up  hia 
poor  trembling  hands  to  the  first  horse  to  guide  him.  1  am 
sure  the  boy  was  trying  to  do  his  best ;  but  he  looked  weak 
and  famished  and  ill. 

"  Vv'hv  did  vou  strike  him,  Hall  ?  ITe  did  nothinjj  to  deserve 
it." 

"  He  doiTt  deserve  nothing  else,"  was  Hall's  answer.  "  Let 
him  alone,  and  the  fni'rows  'ud  be  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  leg. 
You  dun'  know  what  these  young  'uns  be  for  work,  sir. — Keep 
'em  in  the  line,  you  fool!" 

Looking  back  as  1  went  down  the  field,  I  watched  the  plough 
going  slowly  up  it,  Dick  seeming  to  have  his  hands  full  with 
the  well-fed  horses. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  the  lad  was  taken  on,  Johnny,"  Mrs.  Todhet- 
ley  said  when  I  told  her  that  CTening.  "Mitchel  prevailed 
with  his  inasTer  at  last.  Mr.  Jacobson  is  good-hearted,  and 
knew  the  Mitchels  Mere  in  sore  need  of  the  extra  money  the 
boy  would  earn.  Sickness  makes  a  difference  to  the  poor  as 
well  as  to  the  rich." 

I  saw  Dick  Mitchel  three  or  four  times  during  that  January 
month.  The  Jacobsons  had  two  nephews  staying  with  them 
from  Oxfordshire,  and  it  caused  us  to  go  over  often.  The  boy 
Bcemed  a  weak  little  mite  for  the  place  ;  but  of  course,  having 
undertaken  the  work,  he  had  to  do  it.  He  was  no  worse  off 
than  others.  To  be  at  the  farm  before  six  o'clock,  he  had  to 
leave  home  at  half-past  five,  taking  his  breakfast  with  him, 
which  was  mostly  diw  bread.  As  to  the  boy's  woi'k,  it  vai'ied — 
as  those  ac'piainted  with  the  executive  of  a  busy  farm  can  tell. 
Besides  the  i»loughing,  he  had  to  pump,  aud  carry  water  and 


DICK   MITCHEL.  193 

Btrnw,  and  help  with  the  horses,  and  go  eiTands  to  the  black- 
smith's and  elsewhere,  and  so  on.  Carters  and  ploughmen  do 
not  spare  their  helping  boys ;  and  on  a  large  farm  like  this 
thoy  are  the  immediate  rulers,  not  the  master  himself.  Had 
Dick  been  nnder  Mr.  Jacobson's  personal  eye,  perhaps  it 
niiglit  have  been  lightened  a  'ittle,  for  he  was  a  humane  man. 
There  were  three  things  that  made  it  seem  particularly  hard  for 
Dick  Mitchel,  and  those  three  were  under  nobody's  control ; 
his  natural  weakliness,  his  living  so  far  off  the  farm,  and  its  being 
winter  weather.  In  summer  the  work  is  nothing  like  as  hard 
for  the  boys ;  and  it  was  a  great  pity  that  Dick  had  not  first 
entered  on  liis  duties  in  that  season  to  get  innured  to  them 
against  the  winter.  Mr.  Jacobson  gave  him  the  best  wages 
— three  shillings  a  week.  Looking  at  the  addition  it  must 
have  seemed  to  Mitchel's  ten,  it  was  little  wonder  he  had  not 
ceased  to  petition  old  Jacobson. 

The  Jacobsons  were  kind  to  the  boy — as  I  can  testify.  One 
cold  day  when  I  was  over  there  with  the  nephews,  shooting 
birds,  we  went  into  the  best  kitchen  at  twelve  o'clock  for  some 
pea-soup.  They  were  going  to  carry  the  basins  into  the  parlour, 
but  we  said  we'd  rather  eat  it  there  by  the  blazing  big  fire. 
Mrs.  Jacobson  came  in.  I  can  see  her  now,  with  a  soft  white 
woollen  kerchief  thrown  over  her  shouldei's  to  keep  the  cold  ofp, 
and  her  net  cap  above  her  silver  curls.  We  were  getting  our 
second  basinfuls. 

"  Do  have  some,  aunt,"  said  Fred,  "  It's  the  best  you  ever 
tasted." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Fred,      I  don't  care  to  spc^il  my  dinner." 

"  It  won't  spoil  ours." 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  stood  looking  from  the  window 
into  the  fold-yard,  saying  presently  that  she  feared  the  frost 
was  going  to  set  in  now  in  earnest,  which  would  not  be  pleas- 
ant for  their  journey. — For  this  was  tJie  last  day  of  the  neph- 
ews' stay,  and  she  was  going  home  with  them  for  a  week. 
There  had  been  no  very  sharp  cold  all  the  winter ;  which  waa 

a  shame  because  of   the  skating ;  if    the   ponds  got  a  thin 
o 


194  DICK    MITOHEL. 

coatlnpf  of  iee  on  them  one  day,  it  would  be  all  melted  the 
next. 

"  Bless  me!  tliere's  that  poor  child  sitting  out  jn  the  ccldl 
What  is  he  eatino"? — his  dinner?" 

Her  woi'ds  made  us  look  from  the  window.  Dick  Mitchel 
had  stuck  himself  down  by  the  far-oif  pig-sty,  and  seemed  to 
be  eating  something  that  he  lield  in  his  hands.  lie  was  very 
white — as  might  be  seen  even  from  where  we  stood. 

"Mary,"  said  she  to  one  of  the  servants,  "go  and  call  that 
boy  in." 

Little  Mitchel  came  in ;  pinched  and  white  and  blue.  His 
clothes  were  thin,  not  half  warm  enough  for  the  weather ;  an 
old  red  woollen  comforter  was  twisted  round  his  neck.  lie 
took  off  his  battered  drab  hat,  and  put  his  bread  into  it. 

"  Is  that  youi-  dinner  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Jacobson. 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Dick,  pulling  the  forelock  of  his  light  hair. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  go  home  to-day  'i  " 

"Mother  said  there  was  nothing  but  bread  for  dinner  to-day. 
and  she  give  it  me  to  bring  away  wi  th  my  breakfast." 

"  Well,  why  did  yon  sit  out  in  the  cold  ?  You  might  have 
gone  indoors  somewhere  to  eat  it." 

"  I  were  tired  'm  ,"  was  all  Dick  answered. 

To  look  at  him,  one  would  say  the  "  tired"  state  was  chronic. 
He  was  shivei-iug  slightly  all  over  with  the  cold  ;  his  teeth 
chattered.  Mrs.  Jacobson  took  his  hand,  and  put  him  to  sit 
on  a  low  wooden  stool  close  to  the  fire,  and  gave  him  a  basin 
of  the  pea-soup. 

"  Let  him  have  more  if  he  can  eat  it,"  she  said  to  Mary  when 
she  went  away.    So  the  boy  for  once  got  well  warmed  and  fed. 

Now,  it  may  be  thought  that  Mrs.  Jacobson,  being  a  kind 
old  lady,  might  have  told  him  to  come  in  for  some  soup  eveiy 
cold  day.  And  perhaps  her  will  was  good  to  do  it.  But  it 
would  never  liave  answered.  There  were  boys  on  the  farm 
besides  Di(;k,  and  no  favour  coidd  be  shown  to  one  more  than 
to  another.  No,  nor  to  the  boys  more  than  to  the  men.  Nor 
to  the  men  on  this  farm  more  than  to  the  men  ou  that.      Old 


I>ICK    MITOHEL.  195 

Jacobson  would  have  bud  bis  brotber  farmers  pulling  at  his 
ears.  Those  of  yon  acquainted  with  the  subject  will  know  all 
this. 

And  there's  another  thing  I  bad  better  say.  In  telling  of 
Dick  Mitchel,  it  will  naturally  sound  like  an  exceptional  or 
isolated  case,  because  those  who  read  have  their  attention 
directed  to  this  one  and  not  to  others.  But,  in  actual  fact, 
Dick's  was  only  one  of  a  great  many  ;  the  Jacobsons  had 
employed  ploughboys  and  other  boys  always,  lots  of  them ; 
some  strong  and  some  weak,  just  as  the  boys  might  happen  to 
be.  For  a  young  boy  to  be  out  with  the  plough  in  the  cold 
winter  weather,  seems  to  a  farmer  and  a  farmer's  men  nothing ; 
it  lies  in  the  common  course  of  events.  He  has  to  get  throuirh 
as  he  best  can  ;  he  must  work  to  eat ;  and  as  a  compensating 
balance  there  comes  the  genial  warmth  and  the  easy  work  of 
snnnner,  Dick  Mitchel  was  but  one  of  the  race  ;  the  carter 
and  ploughman,  his  masters,  had  begun  life  exactly  as  he  did, 
had  gone  through  the  same  ordeal,  the  hardsliips  of  a  long 
winter's  day  and  the  frost  and  snow.  Dick  Mitchel  was  as 
capable  of  his  duties  as  many  another  had  been.  Dick's  father 
had  been  little  and  weakly  in  his  boyhood,  but  he  got  over 
that  and  grew  as  strong  as  the  rest  of  them.  Dick  might  have 
got  over  it,  too,  but  for  some  extraordinai-y  weather  that  came 
in. 

Mrs.  Jacobsou  had  been  in  Oxfordshire  a  week  when  old 
Jacobson  started  to  fetch  her  home,  intending  to  stay  thei-e 
two  or  three  days.  The  weather  since  she  left  had  been  going 
on  in  the  same  stupid  way  ;  a  thin  coating  of  snow  to  be  seen 
one  day,  the  green  of  the  lields  the  next.  But  on  the  morning 
after  old  Jacobson  started,  the  frost  set  in  with  a  vengeance, 
and  we  got  <jur  skates  out.  Another  day  came  in,  and  the 
Squire  declared  he  had  never  felt  anything  to  equctl  the  cold. 
We  had  not  had  it  as  sharp  for  years:  and  then,  you  see,  he 
was  too  fat  to  skate.  The  best  skating  was  on  a  pond  on  old 
Jacobson's  laud,  whicli  tliey  called  the  lake  fi'om  its  size. 

It  was  on  this  second  dav  t-hat  I  came  across  Dick  Mitchel 


196  DIOK   MITCHEL. 

Ilasteninc^  home  from  the  hike-poiid  after  dark — f<tr  we  had 
skated  till  we  couldn't  see  and  then  kept  on  by  nioonlio-ht — the 
skates  in  my  hand  and  all  aglow  with  heat,  who  should  be  sit- 
tinop  by  the  baidv  on  this  side  the  crooked  stile  instead  of  getting 
over  it,  but  little  ]\rit(*hcl.  But  for  the  moon  shinino'  ri<rht 
on  his  face,  I  might  have  passed  without  seeing  him. 

"  You  are  taking  it  airily,  young  Dick.     Got  the  gout  ? " 

Dick  just  lifted  his  head  and  stared  a  little;  but  didn't  speak* 

"  Come !     Why  don't  you  go  home  ?  " 

"I'm  tired,"  murmured  Dick.     "  I'm  cold." 

"  Get  up.     I'll  help  you  over  the  stile." 

He  did  as  he  was  bid  at  once.  We  had  got  well  on  down 
the  lane,  and  I  had  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  to  steady  him, 
for  his  legs  seemed  to  slip  about  like  Punch's  in  the  show, 
when  he  turned  suddenly  back  again. 

"  The  harness." 

"  The  what «  "  I  said. 

Something  seemed  the  matter  with  the  boy:  it  was  just  as 
if  he  had  partly  lost  the  power  of  ready  speech,  or  had  been 
struck  stupid.  I  made  out  at  last  that  be  had  left  some  har- 
ness on  the  ground,  which  he  was  ordered  to  take  to  the  black- 
smith's. 

''  I'll  get  over  for  it,  Dick.     You  stop  where  you  are." 

It  was  lying  where  he  had  been  sitting;  a  short  strap  with 
a  torn  buckle.     Dick  took  it  and  we  went  on  a<rain. 

"  Were  you  asleep,  just  now,  Dick  ? " 

'*'  No,  sir.     It  were  the  moon." 

"  What  was  the  moon  ? " 

"  I  were  looking  into  it.  Mother  says  God's  all  above 
there  :  I  thought  happen  I  might  see  Ilini." 

A  long  explanation  for  Dick  to-night.  Tlie  recovery  of  the 
Btrap  seemed  to  have  bi'ightened  up  his  intellect. 

'•You'll  never  see  Ilim  in  this  ^voi'd,  Dick.  He  sees  vou 
always." 

"  And  that's  what  mother  says.  He  sees  I  can't  do  more 
nor  mv  anns'll  let  me.     I'd  not  like  Him  to  think  I  can." 


DICK   MITCH  EL.  197 

"All  right,  Dick.  You  only  do  your  best  always:  He 
won't  fail  to  see  it." 

I  had  hardly  said  the  last  words  when  down  went  Dick 
without  warnin*^,  face  foremost.  Picking  him  up,  I  took  a 
look  into  his  eyes  by  the  moon's  light. 

"  What  did  you  do  that  for,  Dick?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Is  it  your  legs  ?  " 

"Yes,  it's  my  legs.  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  didn't  mean  it 
when  I  fell  under  the  horses  to-day,  but  Hall  he  heated  of  me 
and  said  I  did." 

After  that  I  did  not  loose  him ;  or  I'm  sure  he  would  have 
gone  down  again.    Arrived  at  his  cottage,  he  was  for  passing  it. 

"  Don't  you  know  your  own  door,  Dick  Mitchel  ?  " 

"  It's  the  strap,"  he  said.  "  I  ha'  got  to  take  it  to  Caw- 
Bon's." 

"  Oh,  I'll  step  round  with  that.  Let's  see  what  there  is  to 
do." 

He  seemed  unwilling,  saying  he  must  take  it  back  to  Hall 
in  the  morning.  Yery  well,  I  said,  so  he  could.  We  went  in 
at  his  door ;  and  at  first  I  thought  I  must  have  got  into  a  black 
fog.  The  room  was  a  narrow,  poking  place  ;  but  I  couldn't 
see  to  the  other  end  of  it.  Two  children  were  coughing,  one 
choking,  one  ci-yiug.  Mrs.  Mitchel's  face,  ornamented  with 
blacks,  gradually  loomed  out  to  view  through  the  atmos|)here. 

"  It  be  the  chimbley,  sir.  I  hope  you'll  please  to  excuse  it. 
It  don't  smoke  as  bad  as  this  except  when  the  weather's  cold 
beyond  common." 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  it  doesn't,  i  should  call  it  rather  misera- 
ble if  it  did." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Mitchel,  he  says  he  thinks  the  chimbley  must 
have  frozed." 

"  Look  here,  Mi-s.  Mitchel,  I've  "brought  Dick  home  ;  I 
found  him  sitting  in  the  cold  on  the  other  side  of  the  stile 
yonder,  and  my  belief  is,  he  thought  he  could  not  get  over  it 
He  is  about  as  weak  as  a  young  rat." 


198  DICK    MITCHEL. 

"  It's  tlie  frost,  sir,"  she  said,  "  The  boys  all  feel  it  that 
has  to  be  out  and  about.  It'll  soon  be  gone,  Dick.  This  here 
bitinij  cold  dciTt  never  last  lon<>;." 

Dick  was  standing  against  her,  bending  his  face  on  her  old 
Btuff  gown.     She  put  her  arm  about  him  kindly. 

"  No,  it  can't  last  long,  Mrs.  Mitchel.  Could  he  not  be  kept 
indooi-s  until  it  gives  a  bit — let  him  have  a  holiday  ?  No 
Wouldn't  it  do?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this,  braving  the  cloud  of  fly- 
ing blacks.  Such  a  thing  as  keeping  a  ploughboy  at  home  for 
a  holiday  had  never  entered  her  imagination  at  its  widest 
ran  ere. 

"  AVhy,  Master  Ludlow,  sir,  he'd  lose  his  place  !  " 

"  But,  suppose  he  were  ill,  and  had  to  stay  at  home  ?  " 

"Then  the  Lord  help  us,  if  it  came  to  that !  Please,  sir, 
his  wages  might  be  stopped.  I've  heard  of  a  master  paying 
in  illness,  though  it's  not  many  of  'em  as  would,  but  I've  never 
knowed  'em  pay  for  holidays.  The  biting  cold  will  go  soon, 
Dick,"  she  added,  looking  at  him  ;  "  don't  be  down-hearted." 

"  I  should  give  him  a  cup  of  hot  tea,  Mrs.  Mitchel,  and  let 
him  go  to  bed.    Good-night ;  I'm  off." 

I  would  have  liked  to  say  beer  instead  of  tea;  it  would  have 
put  a  bit  of  strength  into  the  boy ;  but  I  might  just  as  well 
have  suggested  wine,  for  all  they  had  of  either.  Leaving  the 
Btrap  at  the  blacksmith's — it  was  but  a  minute  or  two  out  of 
my  road — I  told  him  to  send  it  up  toMitchel's  as  soon  as  it 
was  done. 

"  I  daresav  !  "  was  what  1  e:ot  in  answer. 

"  Look  here,  Cawson  :  the  lad's  ill,  and  his  father  was  not 
in  the  way.  If  you  don't  choose  to  let  your  boy  run  up  with 
that,  or  take  it  yourself,  you  shall  never  have  another  job  of 
work  from  the  Scpiire  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

•'  I'll  send  it,  sir,"  said  Cawson,  coming  to  his  senses,  Not 
that  he  had  much  from  us:  we  mostly  patronized  Dovey, 
down  in  Piefinch  Cut. 

Now,  all  this  happened  :  as  Duffhara  and  others  could  tea- 


DICK   MITCH  EL.  199 

tify  if  necessary  ;  it  is  not  put  in  to  make  up  a  story.  But  I 
never  thoufjlit  worse  of  Dick  than  that  he  was  done  over  for 
the  moment  with  the  cold. 

Of  all  davs  in  remembrance,  the  next  was  the  worst.  The 
cold  was  more  intense — though  that  had  seemed  impossible; 
and  a  tierce  wind  was  blowing  that  cut  you  in  two.  It  kept 
us  from  skating — and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  We  got 
halfway  to  the  lake-pond,  and  couldn't  stand  it,  so  turned 
home  again.  Jacobson's  team  was  out,  braving  the  weather  : 
we  saw  it  at  a  distance. 

"  What  a  fool  that  waggoner  must  be  to  bring  out  the  team 
to-day !  "  cried  Tod.  "  He  can't  do  any  good  on  this  hard 
ground.  He  must  be  doing  it  for  bravado.  It  is  a  sign  his 
master's  not  at  home." 

In  the  afternoon,  when  a  good  hot  meal  had  put  warmth 
into  us,  we  thought  we'd  be  off  aixain ;  and  this  time  rained 
the  pond.  The  wind  was  like  a  i-ough  knife :  I  never  skated 
in  such  before  :  but  we  kept  on  till  dusk. 

Going  homewards,  in  passing  Glebe  Cottage,  which  lay 
away  on  the  left,  we  caught  sight  of  three  or  four  people 
etanding  before  it. 

"  What's  to  do  there  ?  "  asked  Tod  of  a  man,  expecting  to 
hear  that  old  Mrs.  Parry  had  a  second  stroke. 

"  Sum'at's  wrong  wi'  Jacobson's  ploughboy,"  was  the  answer. 
"  He  has  just  been  took  in  there." 

"  Jacobson's  ploughboy  !  why.  Tod,  that  must  be  Dick 
Mitchel." 

"  And  what  if  it  is ! "  returned  Tod,  starting  off  again. 
"  The  youngster's  half  frozen,  I  daresay.  Let  us  get  homej 
Johnny.     What  are  you  sto]>ping  for  ? " 

By  saying  "  half  frozen  "  he  meant  nothing.  Not  a  thought 
of  real  ill  was  in  his  mind.  I  went  across  to  the  house ;  and 
met  Hall  the  ploughman  coming  out  of  it. 

«  Is  Dick  M-tchel  ill.  Hall  ?  " 

"  He  ought  to  be,  sir ;  if  he  ain't  shamming,"  returned 
Hall,  crustily.     "  He  have  fell  down  live  times  since  nooii| 


200  DICK  mitoiip:l. 

and  the  last  time  wouldn't  get  up  upon  his  feet  again  nohow 
Being  close  a  nigh  the  old  lady's  I  carried  of  him  in." 

Hall  went  back  to  the  house  with  me.  I  don't  think  he 
mu'-h  liked  tlie  boy's  looks.  Dick  had  been  put  to  lie  on  the 
warm  brick  floor  before  the  kitchen  fire,  a  blanket  on  his  legs, 
and  his  head  on  a  cushion.  Mrs.  Parry  was  ill  in  bed  upstairs. 
The  servant  looked  a  stupid  young  country  girl,  seemingly 
born  without  wits. 

"  Have  you  o-iven  him  anvthino-  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Please  sir,  Pve  put  the  kettle  on  to  bile." 

"  Is  there  any  brandy  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Brandy  !  "  the  girl  exclaimed  with  wonder.  No.  Her 
missis  nevei-  took  nothing  stronger  nor  tea  and  water  gruel. 

"Hall,"  I  said,  lookiiig  at  the  man,  "  somebody  must  go 
for  Mr.  Dnffham.  And  Dick's  mother  might  as  well  be 
told." 

Bill  Leet,  a  strapping  young  fellow  standing  by,  made  off 
at  this,  saying  he'd  bi'ing  them  both.  Hall  went  away  to  his 
waiting  team,  and  I  stopped  over  the  boy. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Dick  ?  Tell  me  how  you  feel." 
Except  that  Dick  smiled  a  little,  he  made  no  answer.  Hia 
eyes,  gazing  up  into  mine,  looked  dim.  The  girl  had  taken 
away  the  candle,  but  the  fire  was  bright.  As  I  took  one  of 
his  hands  to  rub  it,  his  fingers  clasped  themselves  round  mine. 
Then  he  began  to  say  something,  with  a  stop  between  each 
word.     I  had  to  bend  down  close  to  catch  it. 

"  He — brought — that  — there — strap." 

"All  right,  Dick." 

"  Thank— ee— sir." 

"■  Are  you  in  any  pain,  Dick  \  " 

"No." 

«  Or  cold  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  girl  came  back  with  a  candle  and  some  hot  milk  in 
a  tea-cup.  I  put  a  teaspoonful  into  Dick's  mouth.  But 
he   could   not  swallow   it.     "Wlio  should   come   rushing  in 


DICK   MITCHEL.  201 

then  but  old  Jones  the  constable,  wanting  to  know  wliat  was 
up. 

"  Well  I  never  ! — why,  that's  Mitchel's  Dick  !  "  cried  Jones, 
peering  down  in  the  candle-light.     "■  What's  took  hhn  ?  " 

"Jones,  if  you  and  the  girl  will  rub  his  hands,  I'll  go  and 
get  soiiie  brandy.  "We  can't  let  him  lie  like  this  and  give  him 
nothing." 

Old  Jones,  liking  the  word  brandy  on  his  own  score,  knelt 
down  on  his  fat  gouty  legs  with  a  groan,  and  laid  hold  of  one 
of  the  hands,  the  girl  taking  the  other.  I  went  leaping  off 
to  Elm  Farm. 

And  went  for  nothing.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jacobson  being  out, 
the  cellar  was  locked  up,  and  no  brandy  could  be  got  at.  The 
cook  gave  me  a  bottle  of  gooseberry  wine ;  which  she  said 
might  do  as  well  if  hotted  up. 

Duffham  was  stooping  over  the  boy  when  I  got  back,  his 
face  long,  and  his  cane  lying  on  the  ironing-board.  Bill  Leet 
had  met  him  half-way,  so  no  time  was  lost.  He  was  putting 
something  into  Dick's  lips  with  a  teaspoon — perhaps  brandy. 
But  it  ran  the  wrong  way ;  out  instead  of  in.  Dick  never 
stirred,  and  his  eyes  were  shut.     The  doctor  got  up. 

"  Too  late,  Johnny,"  he  whispered. 

The  words  startled  me.     "  Mr.  Duffham  !  Xo  ?  " 

He  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  nodded  Yes.  "  The  exposure 
to-aav  has  been  too  nnich  for  him.     He  is  sroino-  fast." 

And  just  at  that  moment  Hannah  Mitchel  came  in.  I  have 
often  thought  that  the  extreme  poor,  whose  lives  are  but  one 
vast  hardship  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  who  have  to  struggle 
always,  do  not  feel  strong  emotion.  At  any  rate,  they  don't 
show  much.  Hannah  Mitchel  knelt  down,  and  looked  quietly 
at  the  white  and  shrunken  face. 

"  Dicky,"  she  said,  putting  his  hair  gently  back  from  liis 
brow,  which  had  now  a  damp  moisture  on  it.  "  What's  amiss, 
Dicky  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes  at  the  voice  and  feebly  lifted  one  hand 
towards  her.     Mrs.  Mitchel  glanced  round  at  the  doctor's  face ; 


202  DICK  MrrciiEL. 

and  I  think  she  read  the  truth  there.  She  gathered  his  pooi 
head  into  her  arms  and  let  it  rest  on  her  bosom.  Her  old  black 
Bhawl  was  on,  her  bonnet  fell  backwards  and  hung  from  hei 
neck  by  the  strings. 

"  Oh^,  Dicky  !  Dicky  !  " 

lie  lay  still,  looking  at  her.  She  gave  one  sob  and  choked 
the  rest  down. 

"  Be  lie  dying,  sir? — ain't  there  no  hope?  "  she  cried  to  Mr. 
Duftham,  who  was  standing  in  the  blaze  of  the  fire.  And  the 
doctor  just  moved  his  head  for  answer. 

There  was  a  still  liush  in  the  kitchen.  Her  tears  began  to 
fall  down  lier  cheeks  slowly  and  softly. 

"  Dicky,  wouldn't  you  like  to  say  '  Our  Father  '  ? " 

"  I — 've — said — it, — mother." 

"  You've  always  been  a  good  boy,  Dicky." 

Old  Jones  blew  his  nose ;  the  stupid  girl  burst  into  a  sob. 
Mr.  Duffham  told  them  to  hush. 

Dick's  eyes  were  slowly  closing.  The  breath  was  very  faint 
now,  and  came  at  long  intervals.  Presently  Mr.  Duffham 
took  him  from  his  mother,  and  laid  him  down  fiat,  without 
the  cushion. 

Well,  he  died.  Poor  little  Dicky  Mitchel  died.  And  1 
think,  taking  the  wind  and  the  work  into  consideration,  that  he 
was  better  off. 

Mr.  Jacobson  got  back  the  next  day.  He  sharply  taxed  the 
ploughman  with  the  death,  saying  he  ought  to  have  seen  the 
state  the  boy  was  in  on  that  last  bitter  day,  and  have  sent  him 
home.  But  Hall  declared  he  never  thought  anything  ailed 
the  boy,  except  that  the  cold  was  cutting  him  more  than  ordi 
nary,  just  as  it  was  cutting  everybody  else. 

The  county  coroner  came  over  to  hold  the  inquest.  The 
jury,  after  hearing  what  Mr.  Duffham  had  to  say,  brcnght  it 
in  that  Richard  Mitchel  died  from  exposure  to  the  cold  during 
the  recent  remarkable  severity  of  the  weather,  not  having 
Bufiicient  stamina  to  resist  it.  Some  of  the  local  newspapers 
took  it  up,  being  in  want  of  matter  that  dreary  seascm.     They 


DICK   MITCHEL.  203 

attacked  the  farmers ;  asking  the  public  whether  labourers' 
children  were  to  be  held  as  of  no  more  value  than  this,  in  a 
tree  and  generous  country  like  England,  and  why  they  were 
made  to  work  so  young  by  such  hard  and  wicked  task-masters 
as  the  master  of  Ehn  Farm.  That  put  the  master  of  Elm 
Farm  on  his  mettle.  He  retorted  by  a  letter  of  sharp  good 
Bcnse  ;  finishing  it  with  a  demand  to  know  whether  the  farmers 
were  expected  to  club  together  to  provide  meat  and  puddings 
gratis  for  the  flocks  of  children  that  labourers  chose  to  gatliei' 
about  them.  The  Squire  read  it  aloud  to  everybody,  as  the 
soundest  letter  he'd  ever  seen  written. 

"  I  am  afraid  their  view  is  the  rbAit  one — that  the  children 
are  too  thick  on  the  ground,  poor  things,"  sighed  Mrs,  Tod- 
hetley.     "  Any  way,  Johnny,  it  is  very  hard  on  the  young  ones 
to  have  to  work  as  poor  little  Dick  did ;  late  and  early,  wet  ' 
or  dry ;  and  I  am  glad  for  his  sake  that  God  has  taken  him." 


%v''%^v.V^ 


X. 

A   HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT. 


-m.^ 


■  01P^^^^  ^^  another  tale  of  our  school  life.     It  is  not  ninch 

/-^JiMk     in  itself,  you  may  say,  but  it  was  to  lead  to  events 

\^^^     that  lasted.     Curious  enough  it  is,  to  sit  down  and 

trace  out  the  beo-innins:  of   things :  when  we  can 

trace  it ;  but  it  is  often  too  remote  for  us. 

Mrs.  Frost  died,  and  the  summer  holidays  were  prolonged 
in  'consequence.  September  was  not  far  off  when  we  met 
again,  and  gigs  and  carriages  went  bowling  up  with  us  and 
our  boxes. 

Sanker  was  in  the  large  class  room  when  we  got  in.  He 
looked  up  for  a  minute,  and  turned  his  head  away.  Tod 
and  I  went  up  to  him.  lie  did  shake  hands,  and  it  was  as 
much  as  you  could  say.  I  don't  think  he  was  the  sort  of  fel- 
lo'iv  to  bear  malice;  but  it  took  time  to  bring  him  round  if 
once  offended. 

Sanker  liad  ii-one  home  with  us  to  Dvke  Manor  wlien  the 
holidays  began.  He  belonged  to  a  family  in  Wales  (very 
poor  they  were  now),  and  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Mi-s.  Tod- 
hetley's.  Before  he  had  been  with  us  long,  a  matter  occurred 
that  put  liim  out,  and  he  betook  himself  away  from  the 
!Manor  there  and  then.  But  I  do  not  intend  to  go  into  that 
history  now. 

Things  had  been  queer  at  school  towards  the  close  of  the 
past  term.  Petty  pilferings  took  place:  articles  and  money 
alike  disappeared.     A  thief  was  among  us,  and  no  mistake 


A    HCTl'T   BY   MOONLIGHT.  205 

but  \re  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  him.  It  was  to  be 
hoped  that  the  saine  thing  would  not  occur  again. 

"  My  father  and  Mrs.  Todhetley  are  in  the  drawing-room," 
said  Tod.     "  They  are  asking  to  see  you." 

Banker  hesitated ;  but  he  went  at  last.  The  interview 
softened  things  a  little,  for  he  was  civil  to  us  when  he  came 
back  ao-ain. 

"  AVhat's  that  about  the  plants  ? "  he  asked  of  me. 

I  told  him  what.  They  had  been  destroyed  in  some  unac- 
countable manner.  "  Whether  it  was  done  intentionally,  or 
whether  the  moving  them  into  the  hall  and  back  ao-ain  did  it, 
is  not  positively  decided ;  I  don't  suppose  it  ever  will  be. 
You  ought  to  have  come  over  to  that  ball,  Sanker,  after  all  of 
us  writing  to  press  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  coldly,  "  I  don't  care  for  balls.  Monk  was 
suspected,  was  he  not?" 

"  Yes.     Some  of  us  suspect  him  still.     He  was  savage  at 

being  accused  of but  never  mind  that " — and   1  pulled  ' 

myself  up  in  sudden  recollection.  "  Monk  has  left,  and  we 
have  engaged  another  gardener.  Jenkins  is  not  good  for 
much." 

"  Hallo !   What,  has  he  come  back  ?  " 

Xed  Sanker  was  looking  at  the  door  as  he  sj^oke.  Two  of 
them  were  coming  in,  who  must  have  arrived  at  the  same 
time — Vale  and  Lacketer.  They  were  new  ones,  so  to  say, 
both  having  entered  only  the  past  Easter.  Yale  was  a  tall, 
quiet  fellow,  witli  a  fair,  good-looking  face  and  mild  blue 
eyes ;  his  friends  lived  at  Yale  Farm,  about  two  miles  off. 
Lacketer  had  sleek  black  hair,  and  a  sharp  nose  ;  he  had  only 
an  aunt,  and  was  from  Oxfordshire.  I  didn't  like  him.  He 
had  a  way  of  cringing  to  those  of  us  who  were  born  to  posi- 
tion in  the  world;  but  any  poor  friendless  chap,  who  had 
nothing  but  himself  and  his  work  to  get  on  by,  he  put  upon 
ehamefully  As  for  him,  we  couldn't  find  out  that  he'd  evei 
had  any  relations  at  all,  except  the  aunt. 

I  looked  at  Sanker,  to  see  which  he  spoke  of  j  his  eyes  were 


206  A   HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT. 

fixed  on  Yale  with  a  stare.  Yale  had  not  been  going  to  leave, 
that  the  school  knew  of. 

"  Why  are  you  surprised  that  he  has  come  back,  Sanker?  " 

"  Because  I — didn't  suppose  he  would^''  said  Sanker,  with 
a  pause  where  I  have  put  it,  and  an  uncoiumonly  strong 
emphasis  on  the  "  would." 

It  was  just  as  though  he  had  Ivuown  something  about  Yale. 
Flashing  across  my  memory  came  the  mysterious  avowal 
Sanker  had  nuide  at  our  house  about  the  discovery  of  the 
thief  at  school  ;  and  I  now  connected  the  one  with  the  other. 
They  call  me  a  muff,  I  know,  but  I  cannot  help  my  thoughts. 

"  Sanker !  was  he  the  thief  % " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ludlow,"  returned  Sanker,  in  a  fright. 
"I  told  you  I'd  give  him  a  chance  again,  didn't  I?  But  I 
never  thought  he  would  come  back  to  take  it." 

"  I  would  have  believed  it  of  any  fellow  rather  than  of 
Yale." 

Sanker  turned  his  face  sharp,  and  looked  at  me.  "Oh, 
would  you  ? "  said  he,  after  a  pause.  "  Well  then,  you'd 
hetter  believe  it  of  any  other.  Mind  you  do.  It  will  be  the 
Bafer  line,  Johiniv  Ludlow." 

He  walked  away  right  into  a  group  of  them,  as  if  afraid  of 
my  saying  more,  I  turned  out  at  the  door  leading  to  tho 
playgrouiul,  and  came  upon  Tod  in  the  porch. 

"  What  was  that  you  and  Sanker  were  saying  about  Yale, 
Johnny  ? " 

I  was  aware  that  I  ought  not  to  tell  him ;  I  knew  I  ought 
not :  but  I  did.  Tod  read  me  always  as  one  reads  a  book, 
and  I  had  never  attempted  to  keep  from  him  any  earthly 
thing. 

"  Sanker  says  it  was  Yale.  About  the  things,  lost  last  half. 
He  told  me,  you  know,  that  he  had  discovered  who  it  was 
that  took  them." 

"What,  he  the  thief!  Yale?" 

"Hush,  Tod.     Give  him  another  chance  ;  as  Sanker  says." 

Tod  rushed  out  of  the  porch  with  a  bound.     He  had  heard 


A   HUXT   BY   MOONLIGHT.  .      207 

R  movement  on  the  other  side  of  the  trellis-work,  but  was  only 
in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  tassel  of  a  cap  disappearing 
round  the  corner. 

We  went  in  for  noise  at  Worcester  House  just  as  much  as 
they  do  at  other  schools  ;  but  not  this  afternoon.  Mrs.  Frost 
had  been  a  favourite,  and  Sanker  told  us  about  her  funeral. 
Things  seemed  to  wear  a  mournful  look.  The  servants  were 
in  black,  the  doctor  was  in  jet  black,  even  to  his  gaiters.  He 
wore  the  old  style  of  dress  always,  knee  breeches  and  buckles: 
but  I  have  mentioned  this  before.  We  used  to  call  him  old 
Frost ;  this  afternoon  we  said  "  the  Doctor." 

"  Ton  can't  think  what  it  was  like  while  the  house  was 
shut  lip,"  said  Sanker.  "  Coal-pits  are  jolly  to  it.  I  never  saw 
the  Doctor  until  the  funeral.  Being  the  only  fellow  at  school, 
was,  I  suppose,  the  reason  they  asked  me  to  go  to  it.  He 
cried  so  over  the  grave." 

"Fancy  old  Frost  crying!  "  interrupted  Lacketer. 

"  I  cried  too,"  avowed  Sanker,  in  a  short  sharp  tone,  as  if 
he  disappoved  of  the  remark ;  and  it  silenced  Lacketer. 
"  She  had  been  ailing  a  long  while,  as  we  all  knew,  but  she 
only  grew  very  ill  at  the  last,  she  told  me." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  ? " 

"Two  days  before  she  died.  Hall  came  to  me,  saying  I 
was  to  go  upi.  It  was  on  Wednesday  at  sunset.  The  hot  red 
Bun  was  shining  right  into  the  room,  and  she  sat  back  from 
it  on  the  sofa  in  a  white  gown.  It  was  very  hot  these  holi- 
days, and  she  felt  at  times  fit  to  die  of  it :  she  never  bore  heat 
well." 

To  hear  Sanker  tell  this  was  nearly  as  good  as  a  play.  A 
solenm  play  I  mean.  None  of  us  made  the  least  noise  as  we 
stood  round  him :  it  seemed  as  if  we  could  see  Mrs.  I  rost's 
room,  and  her  nice  placid  face,  drawn  back  from  the  rays  of 
the  red  hot  sun. 

"  She  told  me  to  reach  a  little  Bible  that  was  on  the  draw- 
ers, and  sit  close  to  her  and  read  a  chapter,"  continued 
Sanker.     "  It  was  the  seventh  of  St.  John's  Revelation ;  where 


208  A  nrNT  bt  moonlight. 

that  verse  is,  that  saj-s  there  shall  be  no  more  hunger  and 
thh'st ;  neither  shall  the  sun  light  on  them  nor  any  heat 
She  held  ui}^  hand  while  I  i-ead  it.  I  had  complained 
of  the  light  for  her,  saying  what  a  pity  it  was  the  room  had 
no  shntters.  '  Yoii  see,'  she  said,  when  the  chapter  was  read 
*how  soon  all  discomforts  here  will  pass  away.  Give  mj 
dear  love  to  the  boys  when  they  come  back,'  she  went  on 
*  Tell  them  I  should  like  to  have  seen  them  all  and  said  good- 
bye. Not  good-bye  for  ever;  be  sure  tell  them  that,  Sanker: 
I  leave  them  all  a  charge  to  come  to  me  there  in  God's  good 
time.  Not  one  of  them  must  fail.'  And  now  I've  told  voii, 
and  it's  off  my  mind,"  concluded  Sanker,  in  a  different  voice. 

"  Did  you  see  her  again  ? " 

"When  she  was  in  her  coffin.     She  srave  me  the  Bible." 

Sanker  took  it  out  of  his  pocket.  His  name  was  wj-itten  in 
it,  "  Edward  Brooke  Sanker,  with  Mary  Fi-ost's  love."  She 
had  made  him  promise  to  read  in  it  daily,  if  he  began  only 
with  one  verse.     lie  did  not  tell  us  that  then. 

While  we  were  lookins:  at  the  writing,  Bill  Whitnev  camo 
in.  Some  of  them  thought  he  had  left  at  midsummer. 
Lacketer  shook  hands  ;  he  made  much  of  Whitney,  after  the 
fashion  of  his  mind  and  manners.  Old  Whitney  was  a  baronet, 
and  Bill  would  be  Sir  William  some  time:  for  his  elder 
brother,  John,  whom  we  had  so  much  liked,  was  dead.  Bill 
was  good-natured,  and  divided  hampers  from  home  liberally. 

"/  don't  know  why  I  am  back,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  ques- 
tions; ''joumuLt  ask  Sir  John.  I  shall  be  the  better  for 
another  year  or  two  of  it,  he  says.     Who  likes  grapes? " 

He  was  beijinnino:  to  undo  a  basket  he  had  brouo-ht :  it  was 
filled  with  grapes,  peaches,  plums,  and  nectarines.  Those  of 
us  who  had  plenty  of  fruit  at  home  did  not  care  to  take  much ; 
but  the  others  went  in  for  it  eagerly. 

"  Our  peaches  are  finer  than  these,  Whitney,"  cried  Yale. 

Lacketer  gave  Vale  a  push.  "  You  big  lout,  mind  yonr 
maimers!"  cried  he.  "Don't  eat  the  peaches  if  you  don't 
like  'em." 


A    HUNT   BY   MOO^^.IaHT.  209 

"  So  they  were,"  said  Vale,  who  never  answered  offensively. 

"  There !  that's  enough  insolence  from  you^ 

Old  Yale  was  Sir  John  Whitney's  tenant.  Of  course,  ac- 
cording to  Lacketer's  creed,  Vale  deserved  putting  down  for 
only  speaking  to  Whitney. 

"  He  is  right,"  said  Whitney,  who  thought  no  more  of  being 

his  father's  son  than   he   would   of   being   a   shopkeeper's. 

Mr.  Vale's  peaches  were  this  year  the  finest  in  the  county. 

He  sent  my  mother  some,  and  she  said  they  ought  to  have 

gone  up  to  a  London  fruit-show." 

"  I  never  saw  such  peaches  as  Mr.  Vale's,"  put  in  Sanker, 
talkinor  at  Lacketer,  and  not  kindlv.  "  And  the  flavour  was 
so  good  as  the  look.  Mrs.  Frost  enjoyed  those  peaches  to  the 
last :  it  was  nearly  the  only  thing  she  took." 

Vale's  face  shone.  "  We  shall  always  be  glad  at  home  that 
they  were  so  good  this  year,  for  her  sake." 

Altogether,  Lacketer  was  shut  up.  He  stood  over  Whitney, 
who  was  undoing  a  small  desk  he  had  brouMit.  Amidst  the 
things,  that  lay  on  the  ledge  inside,  was  a  thin,  yellow,  old- 
fashioned  looking  coin. 

"  It's  a  guinea,"  said  Bill  Whitney.  "I  mean  to  have  a 
hole  bored  in  it  and  wear  it  to  my  watch-chain." 

"  I'd  lock  it  up  safely  until  then,  Whitney,"  burst  out  Snepp, 
who  came  from  Alcester.  "  Or  it  may  go  after  the  things  that 
were  lost  last  half-year." 

Turning  to  glance  at  Sanker,  I  found  he  had  left  the  room. 
Whitney  was  balancing  the  guinea  on  his  finger. 

•'Fore-warned,  fore-armed,  Snepp,"  he  said.  "AVho  the 
thief  was,  I  can't  think ;  but  I  advise  hiui  not  to  begin  his  game 
again." 

'*  Talking  of  warning,  I  should  like  to  give  one  on  my  own 
Bcore,"  said  Tod.  "  By-gones  may  be  by-gones  ;  I  don't  wish 
to  recur  to  them  :  i>ut  if  I  lose  anvthino;  this  half  and  can  find 
the  thief,  I'll  put  him  into  the  river." 

"  What,  to  drown  him  ?  " 

"  To  duck  him .     I'll  do  it  as  sure  as  my  name's  Todhetley." 


210  A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT. 

Vale  dropped  his  haiulkerchief  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up 
again.  It  might  have  been  accident ;  and  the  redness  of  hia 
face  might  have  come  of  stooping ;  hnt  I  saw  Tod  did  not 
jhink  so.  Ducking  is  the  favourite  punishment  in  Worcester- 
shire for  a  public  offender,  as  all  the  county  knows.  When  a 
man  misbehaves  himself  on  the  race-course  at  Worcester,  they 
duck  him  in  the  Severn  underneath. 

''  The  guinea  would  not  be  of  much  use  to  anybody,"  said 
Lacketer.     "  You  couldn't  pass  it." 

"  Oh,  couldn't  you,  though  !  "  answered  Whitney.  '  You'd 
better  try.  It's  worth  twenty-one  shillings,  and  they  might 
give  a  shiling  or  two  in  for  the  antiquity  of  the  coin." 

"  Gentlemen." 

We  turned  to  see  the  Doctor,  standing  there  in  his  deep 
mourning,  with  his  subdued  red  face.  He  came  in  to  intro- 
duce a  new  master. 


Tlie  time  went  on.  We  missed  Mrs.  Frost;  and  Hall,  the 
crabbed  woman  with  the  cross  face,  made  a  mean  substitute. 
She  had  it  all  her  own  way  now.  The  puddings  had  less  jam 
in  them,  and  the  pies  no  fruit.  Little  Landon  fell  ill ;  and 
one  day,  after  hours,  when  some  of  us  went  up  to  see  him,  we 
found  him  crying  for  Mrs  Frost.  He  was  only  seven ;  the 
youngest  in  the  school,  and  made  a  sort  of  plaything  of;  an 
orphan  with  no  friends  to  see  to  him  much.  Illness  had  used 
to  be  Mrs.  Frost's  great  point.  Any  of  us  that  were  laid  by 
she'd  sit  with  half  the  day,  reading  nice  stories,  and  talking  to 
us  of  good  things,  just  as  our  mothers  might  do.  1  know  mine 
M'ould  if  she  had  lived  However,  we  mamiged  to  get  along 
in  spite  of  Hall,  hoping  the  Doctor  would  find  her  out  and 
dis(;harge  her. 

Matters  went  on  quietlv  for  some  weeks.  Nobody  lost  any- 
thing: and  we  had  nearly  forgotten  there  had  been  a  doubt 
that  we  might  lose,  when  it  occurred.  The  loss  was  Tod's — 
j-ather  curious,  at  first  sight,  that  it  should  be,  after  his  threat 


A   HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT.  211 

of  what  he  would  do.  And  Tod,  as  they  all  knew,  was  not 
one  to  break  liis  word.  It  was  only  half-a-crown  ;  but  there 
could  be  no  security  that  sovereigns  would  not  go  next.  Xot 
to  speak  of  the  disagreeable  sense  of  feeling  the  thief  was 
amidst  us  still,  and  taking  to  his  tricks  again. 

Tod  was  writing  to  Evesham  for  some  articles  he  wanted. 
Bill  Whitney,  knowing  of  this,  got  him  to  add  an  order  for 
some  stationery  for  himself :  which  came  back  in  the  parcel. 
The  account,  nine-and-tenpence,  was  made  out  to  Tod  ("  Joseph 
Todhetley,  Esquire!"),  half-a-crown  of  it  being  Whitney's 
portion.  Bill  handed  him  the  half-crown  at  once  ;  and  Tod, 
who  was  busy  with  his  own  things  and  had  his  hands  full, 
asked  him  to  put  it  on  the  mantel-piece. 

The  tea-bell  rang,  and  they  came  away  and  forgot  it.  Only 
they  two  had  been  in  the  room.  But  others  might  have  gone 
in  afterwards.  We  were  getting  up  from  tea  when  Tod  call- 
ed to  me  to  go  and  fetch  him  the  half-crown. 

"  It  is  on  the  mantel-piece,  Johnny." 

I  went  through  the  passages  and  turned  into  the  box-room  ; 
a  place  where  knots  of  us  gathered  sometimes.  But  the 
mantel-piece  had  no  half-crown  on  it,  and  I  carried  the  news 
back  to  Tod. 

"  Did  you  take  it  up  again.  Bill !  "  he  asked  of  Whitney. 

"  I  didn't  touch  it  after  I  put  it  down,"  said  Whitney.  "  It 
was  there  when  the  tea-bell  rang." 

They  said  I  had  overlooked  it,  and  both  went  to  the  box- 
room.  I  followed  slowly ;  thinking  they  should  search  for 
themselves.  Which  they  did  ;  and  were  standing  with  blank 
faces  when  I  got  in. 

"  It  has  gone  after  my  guinea,"  Whitney  was  saying. 

"  What  guinea  ?  " 

"  My  guinea.  The  one  you  saw.  That  disappeared  a  week 
ago." 

Bill  was  not  a  fellow  to  make  much  row  over  anything j 
but  Tod — and  I,  too — wondered  at  his  having  taken  it  so 
easily.     Tod  asked  him  why  he  had  not  spoken. 


212  A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT. 

"  Because  Lacketer — who  was  with  me  when  I  discovered  the 
loss — asked  me  to  be  silent  for  a  short  while,"  said  Whitnej. 

"He  has  a  suspicion  ;  and  is  looking  out  for  himself." 

"  Lacketer  has  ?  " 

"  He  sajs  so.  I  am  sure  he  has.  lie  tliinks  lie  could  put 
his  finger  any  minute  on  the  fellow  ;  but  it  would  not  do  to 
accuse  him  without  proof;  and  he  is  waiting  for  it." 

Tod  glanced  at  me,  and  I  at  him,  both  of  us  thinking  of 
Vale.  "  Yestei'day  Lacketer  lost  something  himself,"  contin- 
ued Whitney.  "  A  shilling,  I  think  it  was.  lie  went  into  a 
fine  way  over  it,  and  said  now  he'd  watch  in  earnest." 

"  Who  is  it  he  suspects  ? "  asked  Tod. 

"  He  won't  tell  me ;   says  it  would  not  be  fair." 

"  Well,  I  shall  talk  about  my  half-crown,  if  you  and  Lack- 
eter choose  to  be  silent  over  your  losses,"  said  Tod,  deci- 
sively. "  And  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word,  and  give  the  reptile 
a  ducking  if  I  can  track  him." 

He  went  straight  to  the  i)lav2:round.  It  was  a  fine  October 
evening,  the  daylight  nearly  gone,  and  the  hunter's  moon 
rising  in  the  sky.  Tod  told  about  his  half-crown,  and  the 
boys  ceased  their  noise  to  listen  to  him.  He  talked  him- 
self into  a  passion,  and  said  some  stinging  things.  "  He  sus- 
pected who  it  was,  and  he  heard  that  Lacketer  suspected,  and 
he  fancied  that  another  or  two  suspected,  and  one  knew  j  and 
he  thought,  now  that  affairs  were  come  to  this  pitch,  when 
nothing,  put  for  a  minute  out  of  hand,  was  safe,  it  might 
be  better  for  them  all  to  declare  their  suspicions,  and  hunt 
the  animal  as  they'd  hunt  a  hare." 

There  was  a  pause  when  Tod  finished.  He  was  about  the 
biggest  and  strongest  in  the  school ;  his  voice  was  one  of 
power,  his  manner  ready  and  decisive;  so  that  it  was  just 
as  though  a  master  spoke.  Lacketer  came  out  from  amidst 
them,  looking  white.     I  could  see  tliat  in  the  twilight. 

"  Who  says  I  suspect  ?  Speak  for  yourself,  Todhetley. 
Don't  bring  up  my  name." 

"  Do  you  scent  the  fox,  or  don't  you  ? "  roared  Tod  back 


A   HUNT   BY    MOONLIGHT.  213 

again,  not  at  all  in  a  humour  to  be  crossed.  '  If  you  do^  you 
must  speak,  and  not  shirk  it.  Is  the  whole  school  to  lie 
uijder  doubt  because  of  one  black  sheep  ?  " 

Tod's  concluding  words  were  drowned  in  noise ;  applause 
for  him,  murmurs  for  Lacketer.  I  looked  round  for  Yale 
and  saw  him  beliind  the  rest,  as  if  prepai'ing  to  make  a  run 
for  it.  That  said  nothing  :  he  was  one  of  those  quiet-natured 
fellows  who  liked  to  hold  aloof  from  rows.  When  I  looked 
back  again,  Sanker  was  standing  a  little  foiward,  not  far 
from  Lacketer. 

"  As  good  speak  as  not,  Lacketer,"  put  in  Whitney,  "  I 
don't  mind  telling  now  that  guinea  of  mine  has  been  taken  ; 
and  you  know  you  lost  a  shilling  yourself.  You  say  you 
could  put  your  finger  on  the  fellow." 

"  Speak  !  "  "  Speak  !  "  "  Speak  !  "  came  the  shouts  from 
all  quarters.     And  Lacketer  turned  whiter. 

"  There's  no  proof,"  he  said.  "  I  might  have  been  mistaken 
in  what  I  fancied.     I  wonH  speak." 

"  Then  I  shall  say  you  are  an  accomplice,"  roared  Tod,  in 
his  passion.  "  I  intend  to  hunt  the  fellow  to  earth  to-night, 
and  V\\  do  it." 

"  I  don't  suspect  any  one  in  particular,"  said  Lacketer, 
looking  as  if  he  were  run  to  earth  himself.     "  There." 

Great  commotion.  Lacketer  was  hustled,  but  got  away  and 
disappeared.  Sanker  went  after  him.  Tod  had  been  turning 
on  Sanker,  saying  why  didn't  he  speak. 

"  Ilalf-a-crown  is  half-a-crown,  and  I  mean  to  get  mine 
back  again,"  avowed  Tod.  "  If  some  of  you  are  rich  enough 
to  lose  your  half-crowns,  I'm  not.  But  it  isn't  that.  Sov- 
ereigns may  go  next.  It  isn't  that.  It  is  the  knowing  we 
have  got  a  light-fingered,  disreputable,  sneaking  rat  amongst 
us,  whose  proper  place  would  be  a  reformatory  school,  not 
one  for  honest  men's  sous." 

"  Name ! "  "  Proofs  !  "  "  Proofs !  "  "  Xame  !  "  It  was  as  if  a 
very  torrent  had  been  let  loose.  In  the  midst  of  tlic  lull 
that  ensued  a  voice  was  heard,  and  a  name. 


214  A    HTWT    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

«  Vale.     Harry  Yale." 

Ilardiiio:  was  the  ohe  to  sav  it :  a  clever,  first-class  bov, 
you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  the  surprise:  and 
Harding  went  on  after  a  niimite. 

"  I  be<r  to  state  that  I  do  not  accnse  Vale  myself.  I 
know  nothing  whatever  about  the  case.  But  I  have  reason 
to  think  Yale's  name  is  the  one  that  has  been  mentioned 
in  connection  with  the  losses  last  half." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  cried  Tod,  who  had  only  wanted  the  lead, 
not  choosing  to  take  it  himself.  "Xow  then,  Yale,  make 
your  defence  if  yon  can." 

I  daresay  you  recollect  how  hotly  yoa  used  to  take  up  a  cause 
when  you  were  at  school  you i-se Ives,  not  waiting  to  know 
whether  it  miyht  be  rio:ht  or  wrong.  Mrs.  Frost  said  to  us  on 
one  of  these  occasions  she  wondered  whether  we  should  ever 
be  as  eager  to  take  up  heaven.  They  pounced  upon  Yale  with 
an  awful  row.  He  stood  with  his  arm  round  one  of  the  trees 
behind,  looking  scared  to  death.  1  glanced  back  for  Sanker, 
expecting  his  confirming  testimony,  but  could  not  see  him,  and 
at  that  moment  Lacketer  appeared  again,  peeping  round  the 
trees.     Whitney  called  to  him. 

"  Here,  Lacketer.     Was  it  Yale  you  suspected  ? " 

"As  much  as  I  did  anybody  else,"  doggedly  answered 
Lacketer.  It  was  taken  as  an  aftirmative.  The  boys  believed 
the  thief  was  found,  and  were  mad  against  him.  Yale  spoke 
something,  shaking  and  trembling  like  the  leaves  in  the  wind, 
but  his  words  were  drowned.  He  was  not  brave,  and  they 
looked  ready  to  tear  him  to  pieces. 

"  My  half-crown^  Yale,"  roared  Tod.  "  Did  you  take  it  just 
now  ? " 

Yale  made  no  answer  ;  I  thought  he  could  not.  His  face 
friglitened  me  ;  the  lips  were  blue  and  drawn  back,  the  teetb 
chattered. 

"  Search  liis  pockets." 

It  was  a  sinmltaneous  thought,  for  a  dozen  said  it.  Yale 
was  turned  out,  and  ludf-a-crown  foujid  upor  him;  no  other 


A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT.  2]  *< 

money.     They  boys  yelled  and  groaned.     Tod,  with  hir,  great, 
strength,  pushed  them  aside,  as  the  coin  was  flung  to  him. 

"  Shall  I  resume  possession  of  this  half-crown  ? "  he  asked 
of  Yale,  holding  it  before  hiui  in  defiant  mockery. 

'^  If  you  like,  I " 

Vale  broke  down  with  a  gasp  and  a  sob.  His  piteoas  as- 
pect might  have  moved  even  Tod. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I  don't  care  in  general  to  punish  a 
coward  ;  I  regard  him  as  an  abject  animal  beneath  me :  but  I 
cannot  go  fi-oni  my  word.  Ducking  is  too  good  for  you,  Yale, 
but  you  shall  have  it.  Be  off  to  that  further  tree  yonder; 
we'll  give  you  so  much  grace.  Let  him  start  fail",  boys,  and 
then  hound  him  on.     It  will  be  a  fine  chase." 

Yale,  seeming  to  be  too  confused  and  terror-stricken  to  do 
anything  but  obey,  went  to  the  tree,  and  then  darted  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  river.  It  takes  time  to  read  all  this  ;  but 
scarcely  a  minute  appeared  to  have  passed  since  Tod  first  came 
out  with  AVliitney,  and  spoke  of  the  half-crown.  Giving  Yale 
the  fair  start,  the  boys  sprang  after  him,  like  a  pack  of  hounds 
in  full  cry.  Tod,  the  swiftest  runner  in  the  school,  was  follow- 
ino;,  when  he  found  himself  seized  bv  Sanker.     I  had  staved. 

"  Have  you  been  accusing  Yale  ?  Are  you  going  to  duck 
him?" 

"  "Well !  "  cried  Tod,  angry  at  being  stopped. 

"It  was  not  Yale  who  took  the  thino-s.  Yale!  He  is  as 
innocent  as  you  are.  You'll  kill  him,  Todhetley ;  he  cannot 
bear  terror." 

"  AVho  says  he  is  innocent  ?  " 

"  1  do,  I  say  it  on  my  honour.  It  was  another  fellow, 
whose  name  I've  been  suppressing.  This  is  your  work,  John- 
ny Ludlow." 

I  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  repentance.  A  conviction  that 
Sanker  spoke  nothing  but  the  truth. 

"  You  said  it  was  Yale,  Sanker." 

"I  never  did.  You  said  it.  I  told  you  you'd  better  be 
lieve  it  was  anv  other  rather  than  Yale.     And  I  meant  it." 


216  A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT. 

But  that  Sanker  was  not  a  fellow  to  tell  a  lie,  I  should  have 
thought  he  told  one  then.  The  impression,  resting  on  my 
niemorN',  was  that  he  acknowledged  to  its  being  Vale,  if  he  had 
not  exactly  stated  it. 

''  You  know  you  told  me  to  be  quiet,  Sanker  :  you  said,  give 
him  a  chance." 

lint  I  thought  you  were  speaking  of  another  then,  not  Yale. 
I  s\vear  it  was  not  Yale.     lie  is  as  honest  as  the  day." 

Tod,  looking  ready  to  strike  me,  waiting  for  no  more 
explanation,  was  already  off,  shouting  to  the  crew  to  turn,  far 
more  anxious  now  to  save  Yale  than  he  had  been  to  duck 
him. 

How  he  managed  to  arrest  them,  I  never  knew.  lie  did  do 
it.  But  for  being  the  fleetest  runner  and  strongest  fellow,  he 
could  never  have  overtaken,  passed,  and  flung  himself  back 
upon  them,  with  his  arms  stretched  out,  his  word  of  explana^ 
tion  on  his  lips. 

The  river  was  more  than  a  mile  away,  taking  the  straight 
course  over  the  fields,  as  a  bird  flies,  and  leaping  fences  and 
ditches.  Yale  went  pant'ng  on,  for  it.  It  was  as  if  his  senses 
were  scared.  Tod  flew  after  him,  the  rest  following  on  more 
gently.  The  school-bell  boomed  out  to  call  us  in  for  evening 
study,  but  none  heeded  it. 

"  Stop,  Yale !  Stop ! "  shouted  Tod.  "  It  has  been  a  mistake. 
Come  back  and  hear  about  it.  It  was  not  you  ;  it  was  another 
fellow.     Come  back,  Harry  ;  come  back  ! " 

The  more  Tod  shouted,  the  faster  Yale  went  on.  You 
should  have  seen  the  chase  in  the  bright  moonliglit.  It  put 
us  in  mind  of  the  fairy  tales  of  Germany,  where  the  phantom 
huntsman  and  his  pack  are  seen  coursing  at  midnight.  Yale 
made  for  a  part  where  the  banks  of  the  river  are  overshadowed 
by  trees.  Tod  -vvas  only  about  thirty  yards  behind  when  he 
gained  it ;  he  saw  him  leap  in,  and  heard  the  plunge. 

But  wlicn  he  g(^t  close,  there  was  no  sign  of  Yale  in  the 
water.  Had  he  suddenly  sunk?  Tod's  breath  and  heart  stood 
3till  with  fear.      The  boys  were  coming  up  by  ones  and  twos, 


A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT.  217 

and  a  great  silence  ensued.  Tod  stript  ready  to  plunge  in 
when  Vale  should  rise. 

"Here's  his  cap,"  whispered  one,  picking  it  up  from  the 
bank. 

"  lie  was  a  good  swimmer ;  he  must  have  been  seized  with 

the  cramp." 

"  Look  here  ;  they  say  there  are  holes  in  tlie  river,  just  above 
this  bend.     What  if  he  has  sunk  into  one  1 " 

''  Hold  your  row,  all  of  you,"  cried  Tod,  in  a  hoarse  whisper 
that  betrayed  his  fear.     "  Who's  to  listen  with  that  noise  ? " 

lie  was  listening  for  a  sound,  watching  for  the  faintest  rip- 
ple, that  might  give  indication  of  Yale's  rising.  But  none 
came.  Tod  stood  there  in  his  shirt  till  he  shivered  with  cold. 
And  the  church  clock  struck  seven,  and  then  eight,  and  it  was 
of  no  use  waiting. 

It  was  a  horrible  feeling.  Somehow  we  seemed,  I  and  Tod, 
t:>  be  responsible  for  Yale's  death.  I  for  having  mistaken 
Banker  ;  Tod  for  entering  upon  the  threatened  ducking,  and 
hounding  the  boys  on. 

The  worst  was  to  come :  the  going  back  to  Dr.  Frost  and 
the  masters  with  the  tale;  the  breaking  it  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Yale  at  Yale  Farm.  AVhile  Tod  was  dressing  himself,  the 
rest  went  on  slowlv,  nobodv  stavinii:  by  him  but  me  and  Sanker. 

"  It's  I/our  doings  more  than  mine,"  Tod  said,  turning  to 
Sanker  in  his  awful  distress.  "If  you  knew  who  the  thief 
was  last  half,  you  should  have  disclosed  it ;  not  have  given 
him  the  opportunitv  to  resume  his  game.  Had  yon  done  so 
this  could  not  have  happened." 

•'  I  promised  him  then  I  should  proclaim  him  if  he  did 
losume  it;  I  have  told  him  to-night  I  shall  do  it,"  quietly 
answered  Sanker.     "  It  was  Lacketer." 

"  Lacketer ! " 

"  Lacketer.     And  since  my  eyes  were  opened,  it  has  seemed 

to  me  that  all  youi's  must  have  been  closed,  not  to  find  him  out. 

His  manner  was  enough  to  betray  him:  only,  I  suppose — you 

wanted  the  clue." 
10 


218  A   HUNT   BT   MOO^^:.IGHT. 

"  lint,  Sankcr,  why  did  you  let  rae  think  it  ^vas  Yale  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  You  made  the  first  mistake  ;  I  let  you  lie  under  it  for 
Lacketer's  sake  ;  to  give  him  the  chance,"  said  Banker.  "  Who 
was  to  foresee  you  would  go  and  tell  it?" 

It  had  never  passed  my  lips,  save  those  few  words  at  the 
time  when  Tod  questioned  me.  Harding  was  the  one  outside 
the  porch  who  had  overheard  it ;  but  he  had  kept  it  to  himself 
until  now,  when  he  thought  the  time  had  come  for  speaking. 

AVhat  was  to  be  done  ? — oh,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  It 
Beemed  as  if  a  great  weight  of  darkness  had  suddenly  fallen 
upon  US,  and  could  never  again  be  lifted.  We  had  a  death 
upon  our  hands, 

"  There's  just  a  chance,"  said  Tod,  dragging  his  legs  along 
like  so  much  lead,  and  beginning  with  a  sort  of  groan.  "  Vale 
may  have  made  for  the  land  again  as  soon  as  he  got  in,  and 
come  out  lower  down.  In  that  case  he  would  run  to  his  home 
probably." 

Just  a  chance,  as  Tod  said.  But  in  the  depth  of  despair 
chances  are  caught  at.  If  we  cut  across  to  the  left  hand  (the 
left,  standing  with  our  backs  to  the  river),  Vale  Farm  was  not 
more  than  a  mile  oif  :  and  we  turned  to  it.  The  absenting  our- 
selves from  scliool  seemed  as  nothing.  Tod  went  on  with  a 
bound,  now  there  was  an  object,  a  ray  of  hope ;  I  and  Sanker 
after  him. 

"  r  can't  go  in,"  said  Tod,  when  we  came  in  front  of  the 
farm,  a  long,  low  house,  with  lights  gleaming  in  some  of  the 
windows.  "It's  not  cowardice ;  at  least,  I  don't  think  it  is. 
It's never  mind  ;  I'll  wait  for  you  here." 

'•  [  say,"  said  Sanker  to  me,  "  what  excuse  are  we  to  make 
for  <roin<r  in  at  this  time  'i     We  can't  tell  the  truth." 

/  could  not.  Harry  Vale  stood  alone  ;  he  had  neither 
brother  nor  sister.  I  could  not  go  in  and  tell  his  mother  that 
he  was  dead.  She  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  front  parlours,  sew- 
ing by  the  lamp.  We  saw  her  through  the  window  as  we  stole 
up  to  look  in.     But  there  was  no  time  for  plotting.    Footstepa 


A    HUNT   BY    MOONLIGHT.  21'J 

approached^  and  wo  did  but  get  back  on  the  path  when  Mr. 
Yale  came  up.  He  was  a  tall,  fine  man,  with  a  fair  face  anc 
blue  eyes  like  his  son's.  What  vve  said  I  hardly  know  ;  some 
thing  about  being  close  b}',  and  thought  we'd  call  on  our  way 
home.      Sanker  had  been  there  several  times  in  the  holidays 

Mr.  Vale  took  us  in  with  a  beaming  face  to  his  wife.  They 
were  the  kindest -hearted  people,  liberal  and  hospitable,  aa 
most  well-to-do  farmers  are.  Mrs.  Yale,  rolling  up  her  work, 
said  we  must  take  something  to  help  us  on  our  way  home,  and 
rang  the  bell  We  never  said  we  could  not  stop  ;  we  nevoi 
said  Tod  was  waiting  outside.  But  there  were  no  signs  that 
Yale  had  irone  home  half- drowned. 

Two  maids  put  the  supper  on  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Yale  helped 
them  ;  for  Sanker  had  summoned  courage  to  say  it  was  late 
for  us  to  stop.  About  fifteen  things.  Cold  ducks,  and  a  ham 
and  collared-head,  and  a  big  dish  of  custard  with  nutmeg  on 
the  top,  and  fruit  and  cake,  I  couldn't  have  swallowed  a 
morsel;  the  lump  rising  in  my  throat  would  have  hindered  it. 
T  don't  think  Sanker  could,  for  he  said  resolutely  we  must  not 
sit  down  because  of  Dr.  Frost. 

''  How  is  Harry  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Yale. 

"  Oh,  he  is — very  well, "  said  Sanker,  after  waiting  to  see  if 
I'd  answer.     "  Have  you  seen  him  lately  ?  " 

"Xot  since  last  Sunday  week  when  he  and  JMaster  Snepp 
sj)ent  the  day  here.  He  was  looking  well,  and  seemed  in 
spirits.  It  was  rather  a  hazard,  the  sending  him  to  school  at 
all ;  Mr.  Yale  wanted  to  have  him  taught  at  home,  as  he  has 
been  until  this  year.  But  1  think  it  is  turning  out  for  the 
best." 

"  He  gets  frightened,  does  he  not  ?"  said  Sanker,  who  knew 
what  she  meant. 

''  He  did,"  i-eplied  Mrs.  Yale  ;  "  but  he  is  growing  out  of 
it.  Never  was  a  braver  little  child  born  than  he  ;  but  wheL. 
he  was  four  years  old,  he  strolled  awav  from  his  nurse  into  a 
field  where  a  bull  was  at  grass,  a  savage  animal.  What  exactly 
happened,  we  never  knew ;  that  Harry  was  chased  across  the 


220  A    HUN'I    BY    MOONLIGHT. 

field  by  it  was  certain,  and  then  tossed.  The  chief  injury  wafl 
to  the  nerves,  strange  thonp^li  that  may  seem  for  so  young  a 
chihL  For  a  long  while  afterwards,  the  least  alarm  would 
put  him  into  a  state  of  terrible  fear,  almost  a  tit.  But  he  is 
getting  over  it  now. 

IShe  told  this  for  my  beuetit ;  just  as  if  she  had  divined  the 
nio-ht's  work  ;  Sanker  knew  it  before.  I  felt  sick  with  remorse 
as  1  listened— and  Tod  called  him  a  coward  !    Let  us  get  away. 

"  1  wish  you  could  stay,  my  lads,"  cried  Mr.  Vale ;  "  it 
vexes  me  to  turn  you  out  supperless.  What's  this,  Charlotte  ? 
Ah  yes,  to  be  sure  !  I  wish  you  could  put  up  the  whole  table 
for  them." 

For  Mrs.  Vale  had  been  putting  some  tartlets  into  paper, 
and  gave  them  to  us,  a  packet  for  each.  "  Eat  them  as  you  go 
along,"  she  said.    "And  give  my  love  to  Harry." 

"  And  tell  him  that  he  must  bring  you  both  on  Sunday,  to 
spend  the  day,"  added  Mr.  Vale.  "  Perhaps  young  Mr.  Tod- 
hetley  M-ill  come  also.  You  might  get  here  to  breakfast,  and 
go  with  us  to  church.     I'll  write  to  Dr.  Frost." 

Outside  at  last ;  I  and  my  shame.  These  good,  nice,  simple- 
hearted  people- -oh,  had  we  indeed,  between  us,  made  them 
childless  ?  "  Young  Mr.  Todhetley,"  waiting  amid  the  stubble 
in  the  outer  field,  came  springing  to  the  fence,  his  white  face 
workiiiir  in  the  bright  lio-ht  of  the  hunter's  moon. 

''  What  a  long  while  you  have  been  ?     Well  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Sanker,  briefly.  "  No  news !  I  don't  think 
we've  been  much  above  five  minutes." 

What  a  walk  home  it  was !  Mr.  Blair,  the  out-of-school 
master,  came  down  upon  us  with  his  thunder,  but  Tod  seemed 
never  lo  hear  him.  The  boys,  huslied  and  quiet  as  nature  is 
before  an  impending  storm,  had  not  dared  to  tell  and  prcnoke 
it.     I  could  not  see  Lacketer. 

'  Where's  Vah;?"  roared  Mr.  Blair,  supposing  he  had  been 
with  us.  "  But  that  pi-ayers  are  waiting,  I'd  cane  all  four  of 
you.     AVhere  ai-e  you  going,  Todhetley  'i  " 

"  Don  t  stop  me,  Mr.  Bhiir,"  said  Tod,  putting  him  aside 


A    HUNT   BY   MOONLIGHT.  221 

with  a  quiet  authority  and  a  pain  in  his  voice  that  made  Clair 
stare.  We  called  Blair,  Baked  Pie,  because  of  his  name,  Pje- 
finch. 

"  Read  the  pra3'ers  without  me,  please,  Mi-.  Blair,"  went  on 
Tod.  "  I  must  see  Dr.  Frost.  If  you  don't  know  what  has 
happened  to-night,  sir,  ask  the  rest  to  tell  you." 

He  went  out  to  his  interview  with  the  Doctor.  Tod  was 
not  one  to  shirk  his  duty.  The  seeing  Yale's  father  and  mother 
he  had  shrunk  fi-om  ;  but  the  confession  to  Dr.  Frost  he  made 
himself.  What  passed  between  them  we  never  knew :  how 
much  contriti(m  Tod  spoke,  how  much  reproach  the  Doctor. 
Koger  and  Miles,  the  man-servant  and  boy,  w^ere  called  into 
the  library,  and  sent  abroad  :  we  thought  it  might  be  to  search 
the  banks  of  the  i-iver,  or  give  iiotice  for  it  to  be  dragged. 
The  next  of  us  called  in,  was  Sanker.     The  next  Lacketer. 

But  Lacketer  did  not  answer  the  call.  He  had  vanished. 
Mr.  Blair  went  searching  for  him  high  and  low,  and  could 
not  find  him.  Lacketer  had  run  away.  He  knew  his  time 
at  Worcester  House  was  over,  and  thought  he'd  save  him- 
self from  dismissal.  It  was  he  who  had  been  the  thief,  and 
whom  Sanker  suspected.  As  good  mention  here  Dr.  Frost  got  a 
letter  from  his  aunt  the  next  Saturday,  saying  the  school  did  not 
agree  with  her  nephew,  and  she  had  withdrawn  him  from  it. 

Whether  the  others  slept  that  night,  I  can't  tell ;  I  did  nut. 
Harry  Vale's  drowned  form  was  in  my  mind  all  through  it ; 
and  the  sorrow  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yale.  In  the  morning  Tod 
got  up,  looking  more  like  one  dead  than  alive :  he  had  one 
of  his  frightful  headaches,  I  felt  ready  to  die  myself  ;  it 
seemed  that  never  another  happy  morning  could  dawn  in  the 
world. 

"  Shall  I  a,sk  if  I  may  bring  you  some  breakfast  up  here, 
Tod?     And  it's  just  possible,  you  know,  that  Yale •" 

"  Hold  your  peace,  Johnny  ? "  he  snapped.  "  If  ever  you 
tell  me  a  false  thing  of  a  fellow  again,  I'll  thrash  your  life  out 
of  you." 

He  came  down-stairs  when  he  was  dressed,  and  went  out, 


22*2  A   HUNT   BY    MOONLIGHT. 

waiting  neither  for  breakfast  nor  prayers.    I  went  out  to  watcL 
him  away,  knowing  he  must  be  going  to  Vale  Farm. 

Oh,  I  never  shall  forget  it.  As  Tod  passed  round  the  cor 
ner  by  the  railings,  he  rau  against  him.     Ilitn,  Ilarry  Vale. 

My  sight  grew  dim  ;  I  couldn't  see  ;  the  field  and  the  rail 
ings  were  reeling.  But  it  only  lasted  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Tod  6  breath  was  coming  im  great  gasps  then  from  his  heav- 
ing chest,  and  he  had  Vale's  two  hands  grasped  in  his.  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  hug  him  ;  a  loud  sob  broke  from  him 
like  a  cry. 

"  We  have  been  thinking  you  were  drowned  !  " 

Vale  smiled.     "  I  am  too  good  a  swiunuer  for  that." 

"  But  you  disappeared  at  once." 

"  I  struck  back  out  of  the  river  the  instant  I  got  into  it ;  I 
■was  afi'aid  you'd  come  in  after  me ;  and  crept  around  the 
alder  trees  lower  down.  AVhen  you  were  all  gone  I  swam 
across  in  my  clothes ;  see  how  they've  shrunk  !  " 

"  Swam  across  !     Have  you  not  been  home  ?  " 

"  Ko,  I  went  to  my  uncle's :  it's  nearer  than  home  :  and  they 
made  me  go  to  bed,  and  dried  my  things,  and  sent  to  tell 
Dr.  Frost.  I  did  not  say  why  I  went  into  the  water,"  added 
Vale,  lifting  his  kind  face.  "  But  the  Doctor  came  round  the 
ferry  late,  and  he  knew  all  about  it.  They  talked  to  me  well, 
he  and  my  uncle,  about  being  f lightened  at  nothing,  and  I've 
promised  not  to  be  so  stupid  again." 

"  God  bless  you.  Vale ! "  cried  Tod.  "  You  know  it  was  a 
mistake." 

•"  Yes,  Dr.  Frost  said  so.  The  half-crown  was  my  own. 
My  uncle  mot  us  boys  when  we  were  out  walking  yesterday 
mor"'n'ng,  ami  gave  it  me.  I  thought  you  might  have  seen 
him  give  it." 

Tod  linked  his  arm  within  Vale's  and  walked  off  to  the 
breakfast-room.  The  wonder  tome  -was  how,  with  Vale's  good 
honest  face  and  open  manners,  we  could  have  suspected  him 
eapal)le  of  theft.  But  when  you  once  go  in  for  a  mistake  it 
carries  you  on  in 


A    HUNT    BY   MOONLIGHT.  223 

for  an  instant  when  Yale  went  in,  and  then  you'd  have 
thought  the  roof  was  coming  off  with  cheers.  Tod  stood  look- 
ino:  from  tlie  window,  and  I  vow  I  saw  him  rub  his  handker- 
chief  across  liis  eyes. 

We  went  to  Yale  Farm  on  Sunda}^  morning  early  :  the  four 
of  us  ias'ited,  and  Harding.  Mr.  Yale  shook  hands  twice  with 
us  ail  round  so  heartily,  that  we  might  see,  I  thought,  they 
bore  no  malice  ;  and  Mrs.  Yale's  breakfast  was  a  sight  to  do 
you  good,  with  the  jugs  of  cream  and  the  home-made  sausages. 

After  that,  came  church :  it  looked  like  a  procession  turn- 
ing out  for  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs,  Yale,  and  the  grandmother,  an 
upright  old  lady  with  a  China-crape  shawl  and  white  hair,  us 
five  and  a  man  and  maid  servant.  The  river  lay  on  tlie  right, 
the  church  was  in  front  of  us ;  people  dotted  the  fields  on 
their  way  to  it,  and  the  bells  were  ringing  as  they  do  at  a  wed- 
ding. 

"  This  is  a  different  sort  of  Sundav  from  what  we  thougiit 
last  Thursday  it  would  be,"  I  said  in  Tod's  ear  when  we  were 
together  for  a  minute  at  the  gate. 

"  Johnu}^,  if  I  were  older,  and  went  in  for  that  kind  of  thing, 
as  perhaps  I  shall  do  some  time,  I  should  like  to  put  up  a  pub- 
lic thanksgiving  in  church  to-dav." 

"  A  public  thanksgiving?" 

"  For  mercies  received." 

I  stared  at  Tod.  He  did  not  seem  to  heed  it,  but  took  hia 
hat  off  and  u^alked  «-ith  it  in  his  hand  all  acjross  the  church- 
yard. 


XL 


THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END. 


SEIIIIAPS  this  mio'lit  be  called  the  beirinninfr  of  ch« 
^W^  end  of  the  chain  of  events  that  I  alluded  to  in  rhat 
^^^  other  paper.  An  end  that  terminated  in  distress^  aiid 
death,  and  sorrow. 

It  was  the  half  year  following  that  hnnt  of  om-s  by  moon- 
Jight.  Snninier  weather  had  come  in,  and  we  were  looking 
forward  to  the  holidays,  hoping  the  heat  would  last. 

The  half-mile  held,  called  so  from  its  lenirth,  on  Vale  Farm 
was  being  mowed.  Sunday  intervened,  and  the  grass  was  left 
to  dry  until  the  Monday.  The  haymakers  had  begun  to  put 
it  into  cocks.  The  river  stretched  past  along  the  field  on  one 
Bide  ;  a  wooden  fence  bounde<l  it  on  the  other.  It  was  out  of 
all  proportion,  that  field,  so  long  and  so  naiTow. 

Tod  and  I  and  Sanker  and  Harry  Yale  were  spending  the 
Sunday  at  the  farm.  Since  that  hunt  last  autumn  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Vale  often  invited  us.  There  was  no  eveninjr  service, 
and  we  weiit  into  the  liay-field,  and  began  throwing  the  hay 
at  one  another.  It  was  rare  fun ;  they  might  nearly  have 
heard  our  shouts  at  Worcester  House;  and  I  don't  believe 
but  that  every  one  of  us  forgot  it  -svas  Sunday. 

What  Avith  the  sultiy  weather  and  the  hay,  some  of  us  got 
into  a  tolerable  heat.  The  river  wore  a  tempting  look ;  and 
Tod  and  Said^cer,  without  so  much  as  a  thought,  undressed 
themselves  behind  the  trees,  and  plunged  in.  It  was  twilight 
then  ;  the  air  had  begun  to  wear  its  weird  silence ;  the  sha- 


THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END.  225 

dows  were  putting  on  their  ghastliness  ;  the  moon,  well  up, 
Bailed  alono:  under  white  clouds. 

I  and  Vale  were  walking?  slowly  back  towards  the  Farm, 
when  a  o-reat  cry  broke  over  the  water, — a  cry  as  of  somethins 
in  pain  ;  but  whether  from  anything  moj'e  than  a  night-bird 
was  uncei'tain.     Vale  stopped  and  turned  his  head. 

A  second  cry  :  louder,  longer,  more  distinct,  and  full  of 
agony.  It  came  from  one  of  tliose  two  in  the  water.  Vale 
flew  ba(;k  with  his  fleet  foot — fleeter  than  any  fellow's  in  the 
school  except  Tod's  and  Snepp's.  As  I  followed,  a  startling 
recollection  came  over  me,  and  I  wondered  how  it  was  that 
all  of  us  had  been  so  senseless  as  to  forget  it :  that  one  par- 
ticular spot  on  the  river  was  known  to  be  dangerous. 

"  Bear  up ;  I'm  coming,"  shouted  Vale.  "  Don't  lose  your 
heads." 

A  foot-passenger  walking  on  the  other  side  the  fence,  saw 
something  was  wrong :  if  he  did  not  hear  Vale's  words,  he 
heard  the  cry.  He  came  cutting  across  the  field,  scattering 
the  hay  with  his  feet.  And  then  I  saw  it  was  Baked  Pie: 
which  meant  our  mathematical  master,  Mr.  Blair.  They  had 
given  him  at  baptism  the  name  of  "  Pyefinch,"  after  some  old 
uncle  who  had  money  to  leave ;  no  second  name,  nothing  but 
that:  and  the  school  had  converted  him  into  "Baked  Pie." 
But  I  don't  think  fathers  and  mothers  have  any  riglit  to  put 
odd  names  upon  helpless  babies  and  send  them  out  to  be  a 
laughing-stock  to  the  world. 

Blaii"  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  putting  his  name  aside,  and  had 
gone  in  for  honours  at  Cambridge.  We  got  to  the  place  to- 
gether. 

"  What  is  amiss,  Ludlow  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  Todhetley  and  Sanker  are  in  the  water ; 
and  we've  heard  cries." 

"In  the  water  to-nio;ht!     And  Mer^." 

Vale,  already  in  tlie  middle  of  the  river,  was  swimming 

back,  holding  up  Sanker.     But  Tod  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Mr  Blair  looked  up  and  down;  and  an  awful  fear  came  over 
10* 


226  THE   BEGINNING    OF    THE    END. 

me.  Tlie  current  led  down  to  Mr.  Charles  Vale's  mill — ^Yale's 
uncle.     More  than  one  man  had  fomid  his  death  there. 

"  Oh,  sir  !  Mr.  Blair !  where  is  he  ?  What  has  become  of 
him  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  breathed  Blair.  lie  was  sliding  off  some  of  his 
things  quietly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  particular  part  of  the  river. 
In  he  went,  striking  out  for  it  without  more  splash  than  he 
CDuld  help,  and  reached  it  just  as  Tod's  head  appeared  above 
the  water.  The  third  thne  of  rising.  I  did  not  go  in  for 
Bucli  a  girl's  trick  as  to  faint;  but  I  never  afterwards  could 
trace  the  minutes  as  they  had  passed  by  until  Tod  was  lying 
on  the  grass  under  the  trees.  That  I  remember  always.  The 
Bcene  is  before  my  eyes  now  as  plainly  as  it  was  then,  though 
more  time  has  gone  by  since  than  perhaps  you'd  think  for : 
the  treacherous  river  flowing  on  calmly,  the  quivering  leaves 
overhead,  through  which  the  moon  was  glittering,  and  Tod 
lying  there  white  and  motionless.  Mr.  Blair  had  saved  his 
life:  there  could  be  no  question  of  that,  saved  it  only  by  a 
minute  of  time ;  and  I  thought  to  myself  I'd  never  call  him 
Baked  Pie  again. 

"  Instead  of  standing  moon-struck,  Ludlow,  suppose  you 
make  a  run  to  the  Farm  and  see  what  you  can  get,"  spoke  Mr. 
Blair.  "■  Todhetley  must  be  carried  there,  and  put  between 
hot  l)lankets." 

Help  was  got.  Sanker  walked  to  the  Farm,  Tod  was  car- 
ried ;  and  a  regular  bustle  set  in  when  they  arrived  there. 
Both  of  them  were  put  to  bed ;  Tod  had  come-to  then.  Mrs. 
Vale  and  the  servants  ran  up  and  down  like  wild  Luiians; 
and  the  good  old  lady  with  the  white  hair  insisted  upon  sitting 
up  by  Tod's  bed-side  all  night. 

*'  No,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Vale,  "  some  of  us  will  do  that." 

"  My  son,  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  watch  by  him  myself,"  re- 
turned the  old  lady  ;  and  as  they  deferred  to  her  always,  she 
did. 

"When  the  explanation  of  the  accident  was  given — as  much 
of  it  as  ever  could  be  given — it  sounded  rather  strange.     Both 


THE   BEGINNrnG    OF    THE   END.  227 

of  them  had  been  taken  with  cramp,  and  the  river  was  not  in 
fault,  after  all.  Tod  said  that  he  had  been  in  the  water  two 
or  three  minutes,  when  he  was  seized  with  what  he  supposed 
to  be  cramp  in  the  legs,  though  he  never  had  it  before.  He 
was  turning  to  strike  out  for  the  bank,  when  he  found  himself 
caught  hold  of  bj  Sanker.  They  loosed  each  other  in  a  min- 
ute, but  Tod's  legs  were  helpless,  and  he  sank. 

Sanker's  story  was  very  much  the  same.  He  was  seized  with 
cramp,  and  in  his  fear  caught  hold  of  Tod  for  protection.  Tod 
was  an  excellent  swimmer,  Sanker  a  poor  one ;  but  while 
Banker's  cramp  got  better,  or  at  least  no  worse,  Tod's  disabled 
him.  Most  likely,  as  we  decided  when  we  heard  this,  Sanker, 
who  never  went  below  at  all,  wcnild  have  got  out  of  the  water 
without  help  ;  Tod  would  have  been  drowned  but  for  Blair. 
He  had  sunk  twice  when  the  good  rescue  came.  Mr.  Feather- 
ston,  the  man  of  pills  who  attended  the  school,  said  it  was  all 
through  their  having  jumped  into  the  water  when  they  were 
in  a  white  heat ;  the  cold  had  struck  to  them.  While  Mrs. 
Hall,  with  her  grave  face,  thought  it  was  through  their  having 
gone  bathing  on  a  Sunday. 

Whatever  it  was  thro  ugh.  Old  Frost  made  a  commotion. 
He  was  not  severe  in  general,  but  he  raised  enough  noise  over 
this.  What  with  one  thing  and  another,  the  school,  he  declared, 
was  being  perpetually  upset. 

Tod  and  Sanker  came  back  from  Mr.  Yale's  on  the  next 
day  ;  Monday.  The  Doctor  ordered  them  into  his  study,  and 
sat  there  with  his  cane  in  his  hand  while  he  talked,  rapping 
the  table  with  it  now  and  again  as  fiercely  as  if  it  had  been, 
their  backs.  And  the  backs  would  surely  have  got  it  but  for 
having  just  escaped  coffins. 

All  this  would  not  have  been  much,  but  it  was  to  lead  to  a 
great  deal  more.  To  quite  a  chain  of  events,  as  I  have  said ; 
and  to  trouble  and  sorrow  in  the  far-off  end.  Hannah,  at 
home,  was  fond  of  repeating  to  Lena  what  she  called  the  say- 
ings of  poor  Richard,  "  For  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ; 
for  want  of  a  shoe  the  horse  was  lost ;  for  want  of  a  horse  the 


228  THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE   END. 

rider  was  lost ;  and  all  for  the  want  of  a  little  care  about  a 
horse-slioc  nail."  The  horse-shoe  nail  and  the  man's  loss  seem 
ed  a  great  deal  nearer  each  otlier  than  that  Sunday  night's 
accident,  and  what  was  eventually  to  come  of  it.  A  little 
insignificant  mustard-seed,  dropped  into  the  ground,  shoots 
forth  and  becomes  in  the  end  a  great  spreading  tree. 

On  the  AVednesday,  who  should  come  over  but  the  Squire, 
clasping  Pyefinch  Blair's  hand  in  his,  and  saying  with  tears  in 
his  good  old  eyes  that  he  had  saved  his  son's  life.  Old  Frost, 
you  see,  had  written  the  news  to  Dyke  Manor,  Tod,  strong 
and  healthy  in  constitution,  was  all  right  again,  not  a  hair  on 
his  head  the  worse  for  it ;  but  Sanker  had  not  escaped  so  well. 

As  early  as  the  Monday  night,  the  first  night  of  his  return- 
ing home  from  Yale  Farm,  it  began  to  come  on  ;  and  the  next 
morning  the  boys,  sleeping  in  the  same  room,  told  a  tale  of 
Banker's  having  been  delirious.  He  had  sat  up  in  bed  and 
woke  them  all  up  with  his  cries,  thinking  he  was  trying  to 
Bwim  out  of  deep  water,  and  could  not.  Next  he  said  he  want 
ed  some  water  to  drink ;  they  gave  him  one  draught  after  an 
other  till  the  big  water-jug  was  emptied,  but  his  thirst  kept  on 
Baying  "  More  !  more  !  "  Sanker  did  not  seem  to  remember 
anything  of  this.  He  came  down  with  the  rest  in  the  morn- 
ing, his  face  very  white,  except  for  a  pinkish  spot  in  the  middle 
of  his  cheeks,  and  he  thought  the  fellows  must  be  chaffing 
him.  The  fellows  told  him  they  were  not ;  and  one,  it  was 
Bill  Whitney,  said  they  would  not  think  of  chaffing  him  just 
after  his  having  been  so  nearly  drowned. 

It  went  on  to  the  afternoon,  Sanker  ate  no  dinner,  for  1 
looked  to  see  ;  he  was  but  one  amidst  the  many,  and  it  was  not 
noticed  by  the  masters.  And  if  it  had  been,  they'd  have 
thought  that  the  ducking  had  taken  away  his  appetite.  The 
drawing-master,  Wilson,  followed  suit  with  Hall,  and  said  he 
was  not  surprised  at  their  being  nearly  drowned,  after  making 
hay  on  the  Sunday.  But,  about  four  o'clock  when  the  first 
class  was  before  Dr.  Frost  with  their  Greek  books,  Sanker 
Buddculy  let  his  fall.     Instead  of  stooping  for  it,  his  eyes  took 


THE   BEGINNING    OF    THE   END.  229 

a  far-off  look,  as  if  they  were  seeking  for  it  round  the  walls 
of  the  room. 

"  Lay  hold  of  him,"  said  Dr.  Frost. 

lie  did  not  faint,  but  seemed  dull :  it  looked  as  mnch  like  a 
lazy  lit  as  anything ;  and  he  was  sensible.  Thej^  put  him  tc 
sit  on  one  of  the  benches,  and  then  he  began  to  tremble. 

"He  must  be  got  to  bed,"  said  the  doctor.  "Mr.  Blair, 
kindly  see  Mrs.  Hall,  will  you.  Tell  her  to  warm  it.  Stay. 
Wait  a  moment." 

Dr.  Frost  followed  Mr.  Blair  from  the  hall.  It  was  to  say 
that  Sanker  had  better  go  at  once  to  the  blue-room.  If  the 
bed  there  was  not  aired,  or  otherwise  ready,  Sanker's  own 
bedding  could  be  taken  to  it.  "  I'll  give  Mrs.  Hall  the  orders 
myself,"  said  the  Doctor. 

The  blue-room — called  so  from  its  blue-stained  walls — waa 
the  one  used  on  emergencies.  AVhen  we  found  Sanker  had 
been  taken  there,  we  made  up  our  minds  that  he  was  going 
to  have  an  illness.     Featherston  came  and  thought  the  same. 

The  next  day,  Wednesday,  he  was  in  a  kind  of  fever, 
rambling  in  his  speech  every  other  minute.  The  Squire  said 
he  should  like  to  see  him,  and  Blair  took  him  upstairs. 
Sanker  lay  with  the  same  pink  hue  on  his  cheeks,  only  deeper  ; 
and  his  eyes  were  bright  and  glistening.  Hall,  who  was 
addicted  to  putting  in  her  word  on  all  occasions  when  it  could 
tell  against  us  boys,  said  if  he  had  stayed  two  or  three  days  in 
the  bed  at  Vale  Farm,  where  he  was  first  put,  he'd  have  had 
nothing  of  this.  Perhaps  Hall  was  right.  It  had  been 
Sanker's  own  doings  to  get  up.  When  Mrs.  Yale  saw  him 
coming  down-staii's,  she  wanted  to  send  him  back  to  bed 
again,  but  he  told  her  he  was  quite  well,  and  came  off  to 
school. 

Sanker  knew  the  Squire,  and  put  out  his  hand.  The 
Squire  took  it,  not  saying  a  word.  He  told  us  later  that  to 
him  Sanker's  face  looked  to  have  death  in  it.  Wlien  he 
would  have  spoken,  Sanker's  eyes  had  grown  wild  again,  and 
he  was  talking  nonsense  about  his  class-books. 


230  THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   KSD. 

"Johnny,  bo^,  you  sit  in  this  room  a  bit  at  times;  you  are 
patient  and  not  rough,"  said  the  Squire,  when  lie  went  out  to 
his  carriage,  for  he  had  driven  over.  "  1  have  asked  them  to 
let  you  be  up  there  as  much  as  they  can.  The  poor  boy  is  very 
ill,  and  has  no  relatives  near  him." 

Dwarf  Giles,  touching  his  hat  to  Tod  and  me,  was  at  the 
horses'  heads,  Bob  and  Blister.  Tlie  cattle  knew  us  :  Im  sure 
of  it.  They  had  had  several  hours'  rest  in  Old  Frost's  stables 
while  the  Squire  went  on  foot  about  the  neighbourhood  to  call 
DU  people.  Dr.  Frost,  standing  out  with  us,  admired  the  fine 
dark  horse  greatly;  at  which  Giles  was  prouder  than  if  the 
doctor  had  admired  /din.  He  cared  for  nothino-  in  the  world 
BO  much  as  those  two  animals,  and  groomed  them  with  a  will. 

"  You'll  take  care  that  he  wants  for  nothing.  Doctor,"  I 
heard  the  Squire  say  as  he  shook  hands.  Don't  spare  any  care 
and  expense  to  get  him  well ;  I  wish  to  look  upon  this  illness 
as  my  charge.  It  seems  something  like  an  injustice,  you  see, 
that  my  boy  should  come  off  without  damage,  and  this  poor 
fellow  be  lying  there." 

lie  took  the  reins  and  stepped  up  to  his  seat,  Giles  getting 
in  beside  him.  As  we  watched  the  horses  step  off  with  the 
high  spring  that  the  Squire  loved,  he  looked  back  and  nodded 
to  us.  And  it  struck  me  that,  in  this  care  for  Sanker,  the 
Pater  was  trying  to  make  some  recompense  for  the  suspicion 
cast  on  him  a  year  before  at  Dyke  Manor. 

It  was  a  sharp,  short  illness,  the  fever  raging,  but  not  in- 
fectious ;  I  had  never  been  with  anybody  in  such  a  one  before, 
and  I  did  not  wish  to  be  ai>:ain.  To  hear  liow  Sanker's  mind 
rambled,  was  marvellous  ;  but  some  of  us  shivered  when  it 
came  to  ravings.  Very  often  he'd  be  making  hay;  fighting 
Bffuinst  luunbers  that  were  throwiuij:  cocks  at  him,  while  he 
could  ntf  t  throw  back  upon  them.  Then  he'd  be  in  the  water 
buffetiuii:  with  hi":h  sea- waves,  and  shriekinsf  out  that  he  was 
drowning,  and  throwing  his  thin  hot  arms  aloft  in  agony. 
Sometimes  the  trouble  would  be  his  lessons,  hammering  at 
Latin  derivations  and  Greek  roots ;  and  next  he  was  toiling 


THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE  END.  231 

tliroiigli  a  problem  iu  Euclid,  One  night  when  he  was  at  the 
worst  Old  Featherston  lost  his  head,  and  the  next  day  !Mr.  Car- 
den  came  posting  from  "Worcester  in  his  carriage.  I  wondei 
if  he  remembers  it  ?  * 

There  were  medical  men  of  repute  nearer :  but  somehow  in 
extremity  we  all  turn  to  him.  And  his  skill  did  not  fail  here. 
Whether  it  might  be  any  particular  relief  he  was  enabled  to 
give,  or  that  the  disease  had  reached  its  crisis,  I  cannot  tell,  but 
from  the  moment  Mr.  Garden  stood  at  his  bed-side,  Sanker 
began  to  mend.  Featherston  said  the  next  day  that  the  worst 
of  the  danger  had  passed.  It  seemed  to  us  that  it  had  just  set 
in ;  no  rat  was  ever  so  weak  as  Sanker. 

The  holidays  came  then,  and  the  boj^s  went  home :  all  but 
me.  Sanker  couldn't  lift  a  hand,  but  he  could  smile  at  us  and 
understand,  and  he  said  he'd  like  to  have  me  stav  a  bit  with 
him ;  so  they  sent  wordfi'om  home  I  might.  Mr.  Blair  stayed 
also ;  Dr.  Frost  wished  it.  The  Doctor  was  subpoenaed  to  give 
evidence  on  a  trial  at  Westminster,  and  had  to  hasten  up  to 
London.  Blair  had  no  relatives  at  all,  and  did  not  care  to  go 
anvwhere.  He  told  me  in  confidence  that  his  stavino^  saved 
his  pocket.  Blair  was  strict  in  school,  but  over  Sanker's  bed 
he  got  as  friendly  with  me  as  possible.  I  liked  him  ;  lie  was 
always  gentlemanly,  and  I  grew  to  dislike  their  calling  him 
Baked  Pie  as  much  as  he  disliked  it. 

"  You  go  out  and  get  some  air,  Ludlow,"  he  said  to  me  the 
day  after  the  school  broke  up,  "  or  we  may  have  you  ill  next." 

Upon  that  I  demanded  what  I  wanted  with  air.  I  had 
taken  precious  long  walks  with  the  fellows  up  to  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday. 

"  You  go,"  said  he,  curtly. 

"  Go,  Johnny,"  said  Sanker,  in  his  poor  weak  voice,  which 
•wouldn't  raise  itself  above  a  whisper.  "  I'm  getting  well,  you 
know." 

My  way  of  taking  the  air  was  to  sit  down  at  the  school-room 

•  Since  these  papers  were  written,  Henry  Garden  has,  alaa  !  died. — Ed. 


232  THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE   END. 

desk  and  write  to  Tod.  In  about  five  minutes  soincbody 
walked  round  the  house  as  if  looking  for  an  entrance,  and  then 
stopped  at  the  side-do(U'.  Putting  my  head  out  of  the  window. 
I  took  a  view  of  her.  It  was  a  young  lady  in  a  plain  grey 
dress,  and  straw  boiniet,  with  a  cloak  over  her  arm,  and  an 
umbrella  put  up  against  the  sun.  The  oack  regions  were 
turned  inside  out,  for  the}'  had  begun  the  summer  cleaning 
that  morning,  and  the  cook  came  stalking  along  in  pattens  to 
answei  the  knock. 

'  "  This  is  Dr.  Frost's,  I  believe.  Can  I  see  him  ? " 
'  It  was  a  sweet,  calm,  gentle  voice.  The  cook,  who  had  no 
notion  of  visitors  coming  at  the  cleaning  season,  when  the  boys 
were  just  got  rid  of  and  the  Doctor  had  gone,  stared  at  her 
for  a  moment,  and  then  asked  in  her  surly  way  whether  she 
had  business  with  Dr.  Fi-ost.  That  cook  and  Molly  at  home 
might  have  run  in  a  curricle,  they  were  such  a  match  for  tem- 
per. 

"  Business ! — oh,  certainly.     I  must  see  him,  if  you  please.'"' 

The  cook  kicked  off  her  pattens,  and  went  up  the  back  stairs, 
leaving  the  young  lady  outside.     As  it  was  business,  she  sup 
posed  she  must  call  Mr.  Blair. 

"  Somebody  wants  Dr.  Frost,"  was  the  announcement  she 
made  to  him.     "  A.  girl  at  the  side  door." 

Which  of  course  caused  Blair  to  suppose  it  might  be  a  child 
from  one  of  the  cottages  come  to  ask  for  help  of  some  sort ;  as 
thev  did  come  sometimes.  lie  thouMit  Hall  mio-lit  have  been 
called  to  her,  but  he  went  down  at  once  ;  without  his  coat,  and 
his  sick-room  slippers  on.  Naturally,  when  he  saw  the  young 
lady,  it  took  him  aback. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  I  hope  you  will  not  deem  me  an 
intruder.     I  have  just  got  here." 

Blair  stared  nearly  as  much  as  the  cook.  The  face  was  so 
pleasant,  the  voice  so  refined,  that  he  inwardly  called  himself 
a  fool  for  showing  himself  to  her  in  that  trim.  For  once,  hia 
speech  failed  him;  a  thing  Blair's  had  never  done  at  mathe- 
matics, I  can  tell  you  ;  he  had  not  the  emallest  notion  who  she 


TUE   BEGINNING    OF    THE    END.  23S 

was  or  what  she  wanted.  And  it  seemed  that  the  silence 
frightened  her. 

"  Ani  I  t(jo  late  ? "  she  asked,  her  face  growing  white.  "  Has 
the — the  worse  happened  ?  " 

"  Happened  to  what  ? "  questioned  Blair,  for  he  never  once 
thonirht  of  the  sick  fellow  above,  and  was  all  at  sea.  "Pardon 
me,  voung  lady,  but  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  you  are  speaking 
of." " 

"  Of  my  brother,  Edward  Sanker.     Oh,  sir  !  is  he  dead  ? " 

"  Miss  Sanker !  Truly  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  stupidity. 
He  is  out  of  dano;er  ;  he  is  getting  well." 

She  sat  down  for  a  minute  on  the  old  stone  bench  beyond 
the  door,  rough  with  the  crowd  of  boys'  names  cut  in  it.  Her 
lips  were  shaking  just  a  little,  and  the  soft  brown  eyes  had 
tears  in  them  ;  but  the  face  was  breaking  into  a  glad  smile. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Frost,  thank  you,  thank  you  !  Somehow,  I  never 
thought  of  him  as  dead  until  this  minute,  and  it  startled  me." 

Fancy  her  taking  him  for  Frost !  Blair  was  a  good-looking 
fellow  under  thirty,  slender,  and  well  made.  The  Doctor 
stood  out  an  old  guy  of  fifty,  with  a  stei'n  face  and  black  knee- 
breeches. 

"My  mother  had  your  letter,  sir,  but  she  was  not  able  tc 
come.  My  father  is  very  ill,  needing  her  attention  every  mo- 
ment ;  she  strove  to  see  on  which  side  her  duty  lay — to  stay 
with  him,  or  to  come  to  Edward ;  and  she  thought  it  must  lie 
remaining  with  papa.  So  she  sent  me.    I  left  Wales  last  night.'' 

"  Is  Mr.  Sanker's  a  fever,  too  ? "  asked  Blair,  in  wonder. 

"  No,  an  accident.     He  was  hurt  iu  the  mine." 

It  was  odd  that  it  should  be  so ;  the  two  illnesses  occurring 
at  the  same  time  !  Mr.  Sanker,  it  appeared,  fell  from  the  shaft;. 
his  leg  was  broken,  and  there  were  other  hurts.  At  first  they 
were  afraid  for  him. 

Blair  was  struck  into  a  dilemma.  He'd  not  have  minded 
Mrs.  Sanker ;  but  he  did  not  know  much  about  young  ladies, 
not  being  accustomed  to  them.     She  got  up  from  the  bench. 

"  Mamma  bade  me  say  to  you,  Dr.  Frost " 


234  THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE   END. 

"1  beg  your  pardon,"  interrupted  I31air  ai^ain.  "I  am  not 
Dr.  Frost ;  the  Doctor  went  to  London  this  morning.  My 
iiaj'xe  is  Blair — one  of  the  masters.     Will  you  walk  in  'i " 

jile  shut  her  into  the  parlour  on  his  way  to  call  Hall,  and  to 
put  on  his  boots  and  coat.  Seeing  me,  he  turned  into  the 
school -room. 

"  Ludlow,  are  not  the  Sankers  connections  of  yours  ? " 

"  Not  of  mine.     Of  Mrs.  Todhetley's." 

"It's  all  the  same.  You  go  in  and  talk  to  her.  1  don't 
know  what  on  earth  to  do.  She  is  come  to  be  with  Sanker, 
but  she'll  not  like  to  stay  here  with  only  you  and  me.  If  the 
Doctor  were  at  home  it  would  be  different." 

"  She  seems  an  uncommon  nice  girl,  Mr.  Blair." 

"Good  gracious!"  went  on  Blair  in  his  dilemma.  "The 
Doctor  told  me  he  had  written  to  Wales  some  days  ago  ;  but 
he  supposed  Mrs.  Sanker  could  n<»t  make  it  convenient  to 
come;  ;iiid  yesterday  he  wrote  again,  saying  there  was  no 
necessity  for  it,  as  Sanker  was  out  of  danger.  I  don't  know 
what  on  earth  to  do  with  her,"  repeated  Mr.  Blair,  who  liad 
a  habit  of  getting  hopelessly  bewildered  on  occasions.  "  Ilall! 
Where's  Mrs.  Ilall  ^  " 

As  he  went  along  the  flagged  passage  calling  out,  a  boy 
came  whistling  to  the  door,  carrying  a  big  carpet-bag;  Miss 
Sanker's  lui^-irao-e.     The  coach  which  she  had  had  to  take,  on 

OCT      O  ' 

leaving  the  rail,  put  her  down  half  a  mile  off,  and  she  walked 
up  in  the  sun,  leaving  her  bag  to  be  brought. 

It  seemed  that  we  were  going  in  for  mistakes.  When  I 
went  to  her,  and  began  to  say  who  I  was,  she  mistook  me  for 
Tod.     It  made  me  laugh. 

"  Tod  is  a  great,  strong  fellow,  as  tall  as  Mr.  Blair,  Miss 
Sanker.     I  am  only  Johnny  Ludlow." 

"  Edward  has  told  me  all  about  you  both,"  she  said,  taking 
mv  hands,  and  lookinof  into  mv  face  with  her  nice  eves. 
"Tid's  proud  and  overbearing,  though  generous;  but  you 
have  ever  been  pleasant  with  him.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  begin 
to  call  you  '  Johnny  '  at  once. 


TITE   BEGINNTNG    OF   TRE    END.  235 

"Nobody  ever  calls  me  anything  else  ;  except  the  masters 
here." 

"  You  must  have  heard  of  me — Mary  ? " 

"  But  you  are  uot  Mary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am.  " 

That  she  was  telling  truth  any  fellow  might  see,  and  yet  at 
first  I  hardly  believed  her.  Banker  had  told  us  his  sister 
Mary  was  beautiful  as  an  angel.  Her  face  had  no  beauty  in 
it,  so  to  say  ;  it  was  only  kind,  and  nice,  and  loving.  People 
called  Mis.  Parrifer  a  beautiful  woman  ;  perhaps  I  liad  taken 
mv  notions  of  beautv  from  her ;  she  had  a  lioman  nose,  and 
great  big  eyes  that  rolled  about,  and  a  gruff  voice,  and  a  lovely 
peach -and- white  complexion  (but  people  said  it  was  paint), 
and  looked  three  parts  a  fool.  Mary  Banker  was  just  the  op- 
posite to  all  this,  and  her  cheeks  were  dimj)led.  But  still  she 
had  not  what  people  call  beauty, 

"  May  I  go  up  and  see  Edward  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so ;  Mr.  Blair,  I  suppose,  will  be  back 
directlv.  lie  is  looking  very  bad  :  vou  will  not  be  frightened 
at  him  ? " 

'*  After  picturing  him  in  my  mind  as  dead,  he  will  not 
frighten  me,  however  ill  he  may  look." 

"  I  should  say  the  young  lady  had  better  take  off  her  bonnet 
afore  going  in.  Young  Mr.  Banker  haven't  seen  bonnets  of 
late,  and  might  be  scared." 

The  interruption  came  from  Hall ;  we  turned,  and  saw  hei 
standing  there.  She  spoke  in  a  resentful  tone,  as  if  Miss 
Banker  had  offended  her;  and  no  doubt  she  had,  by  coming 
when  the  house  was  not  in  company  order,  and  had  nothing 
better  to  send  in  for  dinner  but  cold  mutton  and  the  half  of  a 
rhubarb  pie.  Hall  would  have  to  get  the  mutton  hashed  nowj 
which  she'd  never  have  done  for  me  and  Blair. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please  ;  I  should  much  like  to  take  my  bonnet 
off,"  said  Miss  Banker,  going  to  Hall  with  a  smile.  "  I  think 
you  must  be  Mrs.  Hall.     My  brother  has  talked  of  you.'' 

Hall  took  her  to  a  room,  and  presently  she  came  forth  aU 


236  THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END. 

fresh  and  nice,  the  travelling  dust  gone,  and  her  bright  brown 
hair  smooth  and  shining.  II or  grey  dress  was  soft,  one  that 
would  not  disturb  a  sick-room ;  it  had  a  bit  of  white  lace  ro  ind 
the  throat  and  at  the  wrists,  and  a  little  pearl  brooch  in  frjnt. 
She  was  twenty -one  last  birthday,  but  she  did  not  look  aa 
much. 

Blair  had  been  in  to  prepare  Sanker,  and  his  great  e^  es 
(oidy  great  since  his  illness)  were  staring  out  for  her  witb  a 
wild  expectation.  You  never  saw  brother  and  sister  less  alike  ; 
the  one  so  nice,  the  other  ufj-lv  enough  to  fri<::hten  the  crows. 
Banker  had  got  my  hand  clasped  tight  in  his,  when  she  stooped 
to  kiss  liim.  I  don't  thinkjie  knew  of  it ;  but  I  could  not  get 
away.  In  that  miiiute  I  saw  how  fond  they  were  of  each 
other. 

"  Could  not  the  mother  come,  Mary  ? " 

"No,  papa  is — is  not  well,"  she  said,  for  of  coui-se  she  would 
not  tell  him  yet  of  any  accident.  "  Papa  wanted  her  there, 
and  you  wanted  her  here  ;  she  thought  her  duty  lay  at  home, 
and  she  was  not  afraid  but  that  God  would  raise  up  friends 
to  take  care  of  j'ou." 

"What  is  the  matter  Math  him?" 

"  Some  complicated  illness  or  other,"  Mary  Sanker  answered, 
in  a  careless  tone.  "  lie  was  a  little  better  when  I  came  away. 
You  have  been  very  ill,  Edward." 

He  held  up  his  wasted  hand  as  proof,  with  a  half  smile; 
but  it  fell  aijcain. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  should  have  pulled  through  it  at  all, 
Mary,  but  for  Blair." 

"  That's  tlie  gentleman  I  saw.  The  one  without  a  coat, 
lias  he  nursed  you  ?  " 

Sanker  made  a  motion  with  his  white  lips.  "Right  well, 
too.  He,  and  Hall,  and  Johmiy  here.  Old  Hall  is  as  gcod 
as  ffold  when  anv  of  us  ai-e  ill." 

"  And  pays  herself  out  by  being  tarter  tlian  ever  when  we 
are  well,"  I  could  not  help  saying :  for  it  was  the  truth. 

"  Blair  saved  Todhetley's  life,"  Sanker  went  on.     "  "We  used 


THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE    END.  237 

to  call  him  Baked  Pie  before,  and  give  him  all  tlie  trouble 
we  could." 

"  Ondit  vou  to  talk,  Edward  ?  " 

"It  is  jonr  coming  that  seems  to  give  me  strength  for  it," 
he  answered.     "  I  did  not  know  that  Frost  had  written  home." 

"  There  was  a  delay  in  the  letters,  or  I  might  have  been  here 
tliree  days  ago,''  said  Miss  Banker,  speaking  in  a  penitent  tone, 
as  if  she  were  in  the  habit  of  taking  otlier  people's  faults  upon 
herself.  "Wh'le  papa  is  not  well,  the  clerk  down  at  the 
mine  opens  the  business  letters.  Seeing  one  directed  to  papa 
privately,  he  neither  spoke  of  it  nor  sent  it  up,  and  for  three 
days  it  lay  unopened." 

Banker  had  gone  oif  into  one  of  hi?  weak  fits  before  she  fin-. 
ished  speaking :  lying  with  his  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open, 
between  sleep  and  wake.  Hall  came  in,  and  said,  with  a  tone 
that  snaj^ped  Miss  Sanker  up,  it  wouldniJt  do  :  if  people 
could  not  be  there  without  talking,  they  must  not  be  there  at 
all.  I  don't  say  but  what  she  was  a  capable  nurse,  or  that 
when  a  fellow  was  downright  ill,  she  spared  the  wine  in  the 
arrowroot,  and  the  sugar  in  the  tea.  Mary  Sanker  sat  down 
by  the  bed-side,  her  fingers  on  her  lips  to  show  that  she  meant 
to  keep  silent. 

We  had  visitors  later.  Mrs.  Vale  came  over,  as  she  did 
most  days,  to  see  how  Sanker  was  getting  on ;  and  Bill  Whit- 
ney brought  his  mother.  Mrs.  Yale  told  Mary  Sanker  that 
she  had  better  sleep  at  the  farm,  as  the  Doctor  was  away  ;  she'd 
give  her  a  nice  room  and  make  her  comfortable.  Upon  tliat, 
Lady  Whitne}'  offered  a  spacious  bed  and  dressing-room  at 
the  Hall.  Mary  thanked  tliem  both,  saying  how  kind  they 
were  to  be  so  friendly  with  a  stranger ;  but  thought  she  must 
go  to  the  Farm,  as  it  would  be  within  a  walk  night  and  morn- 
ing. Bill  spoke  up,  and  said  the  cai-riage  could  fetch  and 
bring  her ;  but  Yale  farm  was  fixed  upon  ;  and  when  night 
came  I  went  with  her  to  show  her  the  way. 

"That's  the  water  they  went  into,  Miss  Sanker;  and  that's 
the  very  s^K)t,  behind  the  trees."     She  shivered  just  a  little  aa 


238  TFTE   BEOUTNINO   OF   TrTE   END. 

slie  looked,  but  did  not  say  much,  Mrs.  Yale  met  us  at  the 
door,  and  the  old  lady  kissed  Mary  and  told  her  she  was  a 
erood  eirl  to  come  fearlesslv  all  the  wav  alone  from  AVales  t',> 
nurse  her  sick  brother.  AVlien  Mary  came  back  the  next 
morning,  she  said  they  had  given  her  such  a  beautiful  room, 
the  diinity  window  and  bed  curtains  whiter  than  snow,  and 
the  sheets  sweet  with  lavender. 

Her  going  out  to  sleep  appeased  Hall ; — tliat,  or  something 
else.  She  was  gracious  all  day,  and  sent  us  in  two  chickens 
for  dinner.  Mr.  Blair  cut  them  up  and  helped  us.  He  had 
written  to  tell  Dr.  Frost  in  London  of  Miss  Banker's  arrival, 
and  while  we  were  at  table  a  telegram  came  back,  saying 
Mrs.  Hall  was  to  take  care  of  Miss  Sauker,  and  make  her 
comfortable. 

It  went  on  so  for  three  or  four  days  ;  Mary  sleeping  at  the 
Farm,  and  coming  home  in  the  morning.  Sanker  got  tvell 
enough  to  be  taken  to  a  sofa  in  the  pretty  room  that  poor  Mrs. 
Frost  sat  in  nearly  to  the  last ;  and  we  were  all  four  growing 
very  jolly,  as  intimate  as  if  we'd  known  each  other  as  infants. 
I  had  taken  to  call  her  Mary,  hearing  Sanker  do  it  so  often  ; 
and  twice  the  name  slipped  accidentally  out  of  Mr.  Blair.  The 
news  from  Wales  was  better  and  better.  For  visitors  we 
had  Mrs.  Vale,  Lady  AVhitney  and  Bill,  and  old  Feathei-ston. 
Some  of  them  came  every  day.  Dr.  Frost  was  detained  in  Lon- 
don. The  trial  did  not  come  on  so  soon  as  it  was  put  down  for ; 
when  it  did,  it  lasted  a  week,  and  the  witnesses  had  to  stay. 
He  had  written  to  Mary,  telling  her  to  make  herself  quite 
hapi)y,  for  she  was  in  good  hands.  He  also  wrote  to  Mi's. 
Vale,  and  to  Hall. 

Well,  it  -svas  either  the  fourth  or  fifth  day.  I  know  it  was 
on  Monday  ;  and  at  live  o'clock  we  were  having  tea  for  the 
first  time  in  Sanker's  sitting-room,  the  table  di"awn  near  the 
Bofa,  and  Mary  jK)U]ing  it  out.  It  was  the  hottest  of  hot 
weather,  the  window  was  ii|)  as  high  as  it  would  go,  but  not  a 
breath  of  air  ca.ne  in  at  it.  Therefore,  to  see  Blair  begin  to 
ihake  as  if  he  were  taken  with  an  ague  fit,  was  something  in- 


THE  BEGINNING    OF   THE    END.  239 

ei:pli<'able.  His  face  looked  grey,  his  ears  and  hands  had 
turned  a  kind  of  bhiish  white. 

"  Halloa ! "  said  Sanker,  who  was  the  first  to  see  him. 
"  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  " 

Blair  got  np,  and  sat  down  again,  his  liinl)S  shaking,  his 
teeth  chattering.  Mary  Sanker  hastily  put  some  of  the  hot 
tea  into  a  saucer,  and  held  it  to  his  lips.  His  teeth  rattled 
against  the  china ;  I  thought  they'd  bite  a  piece  out  of  it ;  and 
in  trying  to  take  the  saucer  from  Miss  Sanker  to  hold  it  him- 
self, the  tea  was  shaken  over  on  the  carpet. 

"  Just  you  call  Mrs.  Hall,  Johnny,"  said  Sanker,  who  had 
propped  himself  up  on  his  elbow  to  stare. 

Hall  came,  and  Mr.  Featherston  came ;  but  they  could  not 
make  anything  out  of  it  except  that  Blair  had  had  a  shaking- 
fit.  He  was  soon  all  right  again  (except  for  a  burning  heat) ; 
but  the  surgeon,  given  naturally  to  croak  (or  he'd  not  have 
got  so  frightened  about  Sanker  when  Mr.  Garden  was  tele- 
graphed for),  said  he  hoped  the  mathematical  master  had  not 
Bet  in  for  fever. 

He  had  set  in  for  somethiuiJ:.  That  was  clear.  The  shakino'- 
fits  took  him  now  and  again,  giving  place  to  spells  of  low  fever. 
Featherston  was  not  sure  whether  it  had  a  "  typhoid  character," 
he  said;  but  the  suspicion  was  quite  enough,  and  our  visitors 
fell  off.  Mrs.  Vale  was  the  only  one  who  came  ;  she  laugbed 
at  supposing  she  could  be  afraid  of  it.  So  there  wo  were  still, 
we  four  ;  prisoners,  as  may  be  said  ;  with  some  fever  amid  us 
that  perhaps  might  have  a  typhoid  character.  Mr.  Featherston 
said  (or  Hall,  I  forget  which)  that  it  must  have  been  smoulder- 
ing within  him  ever  since  the  Sunday  night  when  he  jumped 
into  the  river.     And  Blair  thought  so  himself. 

Do  not  imao-ine  he  was  ill  as  Sanker  had  been.  Nothins;  of 
the  kind.  He  got  up  every  morning,  and  was  in  Mrs.  Frost's 
sitting-room  with  us  till  evening  :  but  he  grew  nearly  the  lat 
Sanker  was  for  weakness,  and  wanted  pretty  nigh  as  much 
waiting  on.  Sometimes  his  hands  were  like  a  burning  fire- 
coal  :  sometimes  so  cold  that  Marv  would  take  them  in  hers  to 


24-0  THE   BEGINNING    OF    THE    END. 

try  and  rub  into  their  veins  a  little  life.  She  was  the  gentlest 
nurse  possible,  and  did  not  seem  to  think  anything  more  of 
waitiuii"  on  him  tluui  on  her  brother.  Mrs.  Hall  would  stand 
by  and  say  there  was  nothing  left  for  her  to  do. 

One  day  Lady  Whitney  came  over,  braving  the  typhoid  cha- 
racter, and  asked  to  see  Miss  Banker  in  the  great  drawing-room  ; 
whei-e  she  stood  sniffing  at  a  bottle  of  aromatic  vinegar. 

"  My  deal-,"  she  said,  when  Mary  went  to  her,  "  I  do  not 
think  this  is  at  all  a  desirable  position  that  you  are  placed  in, 
I  should  not  exactly  like  it  for  one  of  my  own  daughters.  Mr. 
Blair  is  a  very  gentlemanly  man,  and  all  that,  with  quite 
proper  feelings  no  doubt ;  but  sitting  with  him  in  sickness  is 
altogether  different  from  sitting  with  your  brother.  Feather- 
Bton  tells  me  there's  little  or  no  danger  of  infection,  and  I  have 
come  to  take  you  back  to  the  Hall  with  me." 

But  Mary  would  not  go.  It  was  not  the  position  she  should 
have  voluntarily  chosen,  but  circumstances  had  led  her  into  it, 
and  she  thought  her  duty  lay  in  staying  where  she  was  at  pres- 
ent, was  the  substance  of  her  answer.  Mr.  Blair  had  nursed 
her  brother  throaq-h  his  dano-erous  illness,  and  it  would  be 
cruelly  nngratef  ul  to  leave  him,  now  that  he  was  ill  himself. 
It  seemed  a  duty  thrown  expressly  iu  her  way,  she  added  ;  and 
her  mother  approved  of  what  she  was  doing. 

So  Lady  Wiiitney  went  away  (leaving  the  bottle  of  aromatic 
vinegar  as  a  present  for  the  sick  room)  three  parts  convinced. 
Any  way,  she  said  to  them  when  she  got  home,  that  Mary 
Sanker  was  a  sweet,  good  gii'l,  trustworthy  to  her  lingers'  ends. 
I'm  sine  she  was  like  sunshine  in  the  room,  and  read  to  us 
out  of  the  Bil)le  just  as  llarrv  Vale's  fine  old  iicrandmother 
miMit  have  done.  The  first  dav  that  Sanker  took  a  drive  in  a 
Jly,  he  was  tired  afterwards,  and  went  to  l)ed  and  to  sleep  at 
tea-time.  Towards  sunset,  before  I  walked  with  her  to  tho 
Farm,  Mar}'  got  the  Book  as  usual ;  and  then  hesitated,  as  if 
ill  doubt  whether  to  presume  to  read  or  not,  Sanker  being  away. 

"  Oh  yes ;  yes,  if  you  please,"  said  Mi*.  Blair. 

She  began  the  tenth  chapter  of  St.   John.     It  is  a  passabiv 


THE   BEGIX^INQ    OF   THE   END.  241 

lono-  one,  as  everybody  knows  ;  and  when  she  laid  the  Book 
down  again,  Blair  had  his  eyes  shut  and  iiis  head  resting  on  the 
back  of  the  easy  chair  where  lie  generally  sat.  His  face  never 
looked  stiller  or  whiter.  I  glanced  at  Mary  and  she  at  me; 
we  thought  he  was  worse,  and  she  Avent  up  to  him. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  read  so  long  a  chapter,"  she  gently 
eaid.     ''  I  fear  you  are  feeling  worse." 

"  No  ;  I  was  only  thinking.  Thinking  what  an  angel  you 
are,"  he  added  in  a  low,  impassioned,  and  yet  reverent  tone, 
as  he  bent  forward  to  look  up  in  her  face,  and  took  both  her 
hands  to  hold  for  a  moment  in  his. 

She  drew  them  away  at  once,  saying,  as  she  passed  me,  that 
she  was  going  to  put  her  bonnet  on,  and  should  be  ready  in  a 
minute.  Of  course  it  mio-ht  have  been  the  reflection  of  the  red 
Bun-clouds,  but  I  never  saw  any  face  so  glowing  in  all  my  life. 

The  next  move  old  Featherston  made,  was  to  decide  that 
the  fever  had  not  a  typhoid  character  ;  and  visitors  came  about 
us  again.  It  was  something  like  the  opening  of  a  public-house 
after  a  tide  of  closing :  all  the  Whitneys  flocked  in  together, 
except  Sir  John,  who  was  in  town  for  Parliament.  Mrs.  Ilall 
was  uncommonly  short  with  everybody.  She  had  said  from 
the  first  there  was  nothing  infectious  in  the  fever,  told  Feather- 
Bton  so  to  his  face,  and  resented  people's  having  stayed  away 
I  wrote  home  to  tell  them  there.  On  the  Saturdav  Br.  Frost 
arrived,  and  we  were  glad  to  see  him.  Blair  was  getting  rather 
better  then. 

"  "Well,  that  Sunday  night's  plunge  in  the  water  has  taken 
out  its  revenue !  "  remarked  Dr.  Frost.  "  It  onlv  wants  Tod- 
hetlev  and  Yale  to  follow  suit." 

But  neither  of  them  had  the  least  intention  of  following. 
On  the  Monday  Tod  arrived  to  surprise  us,  strong  as  ever.  The 
Squire  had  trusted  him  to  drive  tlie  horses  :  you  should  have 
Been  them  spanking  in  at  the  gate  of  Worcester  House,  paw- 
iucj  the  travel,  as  Tod  in  the  hio-h  carriao-e,  the  ribbons  in  his 
hands,  and  the  grooui  beside  him,  brought  them  up  beautifully 
to  the  dcor.  Some  people  called  Tom  ugly,  saying  his  features 


11 


242  THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE   END. 

were  strong  ;  but  I  know  he  promised  to  be  the  finest  man  iu 
our  two  counties. 

I]e  conveyed  an  invitation  for  the  sick  and  the  well.  When 
the  two  invahds  were  able  to  ijet  to  Dyke  Manor,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Todhetley  expected  to  see  them,  for  change  of  air. 
Mary  Sanker  and  I  were  to  go  as  soon  as  we  liked.  Which 
wc  did  in  a  few  days,  and  were  followed  by  Sanker  and  Mr. 
Blair ;  both  able  to  help  themselves  then,  and  getting  well 
all  one  way. 

It  did  not  surprise  people  very  nmch  to  hear  that  the 
mathematical  master  and  Mary  Sanker  had  fallen  in  love 
with  one  another.  He  (as  Bill  Whitney's  mother  had  put  in) 
was  gentlemanly ;  a  good-looking  fellow  to  boot :  and  you  have 
heard  what  she  was.  The  next  week  but  one  after  arriving  at 
Dyke  Manor,  Blair  took  Mrs.  Todhetley  into  his  confidence, 
though  he  had  said  nothing  to  Mary.  They  would  be  sure  to 
marry  in  the  end,  she  privately  told  the  Squire,  for  the  like- 
ness in  their  faces  to  each  other  struck  her  at  first  sic^ht. 

"  Mary  will  not  have  a  shilling,  Mr.  Blair;  she  will  go  to 
her  husband  (whenever  she  shall  marry)  with  even  a  very 
poor  outfit,"  Mrs.  Todhetley  explained,  wishing  Blair  fully  to 
understand  things.  "  Her  father,  Philip  Sanker,  was  a  gen- 
tleman bred  and  born,  but  his  })atrimony  was  small.  He  was 
persuaded  to  embark  it  in  a  Welsh  mine,  and  lost  all.  lie- 
poi't  said  some  roguery  was  at  work,  but  I  don't  know  that  it 
was.  It  ended  in  his  becoming  the  overlooker  on  the  very 
same  mine,  at  a  salary  so  small  that  they  could  hardly  have 
reared  their  family  anywhei-e  but  in  Wales.  Mary  does  not 
play,  or  draw,  you  see ;  she  has  no  accomplishments." 

"  She  has  what  is  a  great  deal  better;  she  does  not  want 
them,"  answered  Blair,  his  pale  face  lighting  up. 

"  In  }>oint  of  fact,  the  Sankers — as  I  fancy — have  sacrificed 
the  girls'  interests  to  the  boys;  they  of  course  must  have  a 
thoi'inigh  education,"  remarked  Mrs.  Todhetley.  "  They  are 
good  people,  both;  you  could  not  fail  to  like  them.  I  some- 
times think,  Mr,  Blair,  that  the  children  of  these  refined  n.tn 


THl    BEGINNING    OF   THE   END.  243 

Riid  women  (and  Philip  Sanker  and  his  wife  are  that),  com- 
pelled to  live  closely  and  to  look  at  every  sixpence  before  it 
is  spent,  turn  out  all  the  better  for  it." 

"I  am  sure  they  do,"  answered  Blair,  earnestly.  "It  was 
my  own  case." 

Taking  Mrs.  Todhetley  into  confidence  meant  as  to  liia 
means  as  well  as  his  love.  He  had  saved  a  little  money  dur- 
ing the  eight  years  he  had  been  at  work  for  himself — about 
two  hundred  pounds.  It  might  be  possible,  he  thought,  to 
take  to  a  school  with  this,  and  set  up  a  tent  at  once :  he  and 
Mary.  Mis.  Tcjdhetley  shook  her  head ;  she  could  make  as 
much  of  small  sums  as  anybody,  but  fancied  this  would  be 
scarcely  enough  for  what  he  wished, 

"There  would  be  the  furniture,''  she  ventured  to  say  with 
some  hesitativtn,  not  liking  to  damp  him, 

"I  think  that  is  often  included  in  the  purchase- money  f(* 
the  good-will,"  said  Blair. 

lie  had  been  acting  on  this  notion  before  speaking  to  Mr*. 
Todhetley,  and  a  friend  of  his  in  London,  the  Rev.  M.. 
Lockett,  was  already  looking  out  for  any  schools  that  might 
be  in  the  market.  In  a  few  days  news  came  down  of  one  to 
be  disposed  of  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London.  Mr.  Lockeut 
thouirht  it  was  as  desirable  an  investment  as  Blair  wa* 
likely  to  find,  he  wrote  word:  only,  the  purchase-inonej, 
hiclusive  of  furniture,  was  four  hundred  pounds  instead  of 
two. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  think  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Blair,  pushing  his 
curly  hair  (they  used  to  say  he  was  vain  of  it  at  Frost's)  off 
his  per])lexed  brow.  "My  two  hundred  pounds  will  not  go 
far  towards  that." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  first  step  will  be  to  go  np  and 
see  tlie  place,"  remarked  Mrs.  Todhetley.  "If  what  Mr, 
L<  ckett  says  of  the  school  be  true;  that  is,  if  the  people  who 
have  the  dip))OFal  of  it  aie  not  deceiving  him ;  it  must  be  a 
very  trood  t!  inir." 

"  I  sujip.ose  30U  mean  that  the  half  of  the  purchaee-raonej 


2i4  THE   BEGINNING    OF    THE    END. 

Bliould  remain  on  it  as  a  mortirage,  to  be  paid  off  later,"  cried 
Blair,  seizing  on  the  idea  and  brightening  up. 

"  No ;  not  exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetley,  getting  as  red  aa 
a  rose,  for  she  did  not  like  to  tell  hiin  what  she  did  mean ;  it 
looked  ratlier  like  a  conspirac}'. 

"Look  here,  Blair,"  cried  the  S(piii-e,  laying  liold  of  him  in 
the  "-arden  bv  the  button-hole,  ''/will  see  about  the  other 
two  hundred.  You  go  up  and  make  inquiries  on  the  s[)ot ; 
and  perhaps  I'll  go  too ;  I  should  like  a  run  ;  and  if  the  affair 
is  worth  your  while,  we'll  pay  the  money  dowm  on  the  nail, 
and  so  have  done  with  it." 

It  was  Blair's  turn  to  get  red  now.  "  Do  you  mean,  sir, 
that  you — that  you — would  advance  the  half  of  the  money  ? 
But  it  would  be  too  generous.     I  have  no  claim  on  you " 

"  No  claim  on  me  !  "  burst  forth  the  S(piire,  pinning  him 
against  the  wall  of  the  pigeon-house  in  a  passion.  "  No  claim 
on  me !  AVhen  you  saved  my  son  from  drowning  but  a  few 
weeks  am) !  And  ecot  an  asjue  fever  through  it !  No  claim  on 
me  !    "What  next  will  you  say  ?  " 

"  But  that  was  nothing,  sir.  Any  man,  with  the  commonest 
feelinsg  of  humanity,  would  jump  into  the  water  if  he  saw  a 
fellow-creature  sinkino'." 

"  Commonest  fiddlestick !  "  roared  the  Squire.  "  If  this 
school  is  one  likely  to  answer  your  purpose,  you  put  down 
your  two  hundred  pounds,  and  I  will  see  to  the  rest.  There! 
we'll  go  up  to-day." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  never  expected  this.  Perhaps  in  a  year  or  tw^o 
I  shall  be  able  to  pay  the  money  back  :  but  the  goodness  I 
never  can  I'epay." 

"  Don't  you  trouble  your  head  about  paying  me  ])ack  till 
you're  asked  to  do  it,"  retorted  the  Squire,  mortally  offended 
at  the  notion.  "If  you  are  too  proud  to  take  it  and  say 
nothinir  about  it,  I'll  e-ive  it  to  Mary  Sanker  instead  of  you, 
I  will,  too.  Mind,  sir!  that  half  shall  be  your  wife's,  not 
yours." 

If  you  believe  me,  there  were  tears  in  old  Blair's  eyes.     lie 


THE   BEGINISTING    OF   THE   EOT). 


245 


was  but  soft  at  times.  The  Squire  gave  him  another  thrust, 
wliich  nearly  sent  Blair  into  the  pigeon-house,  and  then 
walked  off  with  his  head  up  and  his  nankeen  coat-skirts  held 
out  behind,  to  watch  Drew  give  the  green  meat  to  the  pigs 
Blair  got  over  his  push,  and  went  to  lind  Miss  Mary,  his  thin 
cheeks  alight  with  a  spot  as  red  as  Banker's  had  worn  when 
his  illness  was  coming  on. 

They  went  up  to  London  that  day.  The  Squire  had  plenty 
of  sense  when  he  chose  to  bring  it  out ;  and  instead  of  trust- 
ino-  to  his  own  investigation  and  Blair's  (which  would  have 
been  the  likeliest  thing  for  him  to  do  in  general)  he  took  a 
lawyer  to  the  spot. 

It  proved  to  be  all  right.  The  gentleman  giving  up  tho 
school  had  made  some  money  at  it,  and  was  going  abroad  to 
his  friends,  who  had  settled  in  Queensland.  Any  efiicient 
man,  he  said  to  the  Squire,  able  to  keejp  the  pupils  when  once 
he  had  secured  them,  could  not  fail  to  do  well  at  it.  The 
clergyman,  Mr.  Lockett,  had  called  on  one  or  two  of  the 
parents,  who  confirmed  what  was  asserted.  Altogether  it 
was  a  straightforward,  fair  thing ;  but  they'd  not  bate  a 
shilling  of  the  four  hundred  pounds. 

The  Squire  concluded  the  bargain  on  the  spot,  for  other 
applicants  were  after  it,  and  there  was  danger  in  delay.  He 
came  back  to  Dyke  Manor ;  and  the  next  thing  he  did  was  to 
accompany  Mary  Sanker  home,  and  tell  the  news  there. 

Mr.  Blair  stayed  in  London  to  take  possession,  and  get 
things  in  order.  He  had  but  time  for  a  few  days'  flying  visit 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sanker  in  Wales  before  opening  his  new 
school.  There  was  no  opposition  there :  people  are  apt  to 
judge  of  prospects  according  to  their  own  circumstances; 
and  they  seemed  to  think  it  a  good  ofler  for  Mary. 

There  was  no  opposition  anywhere.  Dr.  Frost  got  a  new 
mathematical  master  without  trouble,  and  sent  Blair  his  best 
wishes  and  a  full  set  of  plated  spoons  and  forks  and  things, 
engraved  with  the  initials  P.  M.  B.  He  was  wise  enough  to 
lay  out  the  sum  he  wished  to  give  in  useful  things,  instead  of 


246  THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   END. 

a  silver  tea-pot  or  any  otlier  grand  article  of  that  kind,  which 
would  not  be  brought  to  light  once  in  a  year. 

Bliiir  cribbed  a  week's  holiday  at  Michaelmas,  and  went 
down  to  be  married.  We  saw  them  at  the  week's  end  as  they 
passed  through  Worcester  station.  Mary  looked  the  same 
sweet  girl  as  ever,  in  the  same  quiet  grey  dress  (or  another 
that  was  related  to  it) ;  and  Blair  was  jolly.  He  clasped  hold 
of  the  Squire's  hands  as  if  he  wanted  to  take  them  with  him. 
We  handed  in  a  big  basket  of  nectarines  and  grapes  from 
Mrs.  Todlietley ;  and  Mary's  nice  face  smiled  and  nodded  her 
thanks  to  the  last,  as  the  train  puffed  on. 

"  Good  luck  to  them ! "  said  Tod. 

Good  luck  to  them.     You  will  hear  what  luck  they  had. 

For  this  is  not  the  end  of  that  Sunday  night's  work,  or  it 
would  have  hardly  been  worth  relating,  seeing  that  people 
get  married  every  day,  and  nobody  thinks  cheese  of  it  but 
themselves.  The  end  has  to  come.  And  I  knew  from  the 
fb'st  it  could  not  all  be  got  into  one  paper. 


XIL 
JERKY'S   GAZETTE. 


^FW^itE  scliool,  taken  to  by  Mr.  Blair,  was  in  one  of  the 
suburbs  of  London.  It  may  be  as  well  not  to  men- 
tion which  ;  but  some  of  the  families  vet  livino-  there 
cannot  fail  to  remember  the  circumstances  when 
they  read  this.  For  what  I  am  going  to  tell  yon  of  is  true. 
It  did  not  happen  last  year  ;  nor  tlie  year  before.  When  it 
did,  is  of  no  consequence  to  anybody. 

AVlien  Fyefinch  Blair  got  into  the  house,  he  found  that  it 
bad  some  dilapidations,  which  had  escaped  his  notice,  and 
would  have  to  be  repaired.  Not  an  uncommon  case  by  any 
means.  Mr.  Blair  paid  the  four  hundred  pounds  for  the 
Bchool,  including  furniture  and  good-will,  and  that  drained 
him  of  his  money.  It  was  not  a  bad  bargain,  as  bargains  go. 
He  had  then  the  hoiise  put  into  fair  order,  and  bought  in  a 
little  more  furniture  that  seemed  to  him  necessary,  intending 
his  boys  should  be  comfortable,  as  well  as  the  young  wife  he 
was  soon  to  bring  home. 

The  school  did  not  profess  to  be  one  of  those  higher-clasa 
ones  that  charge  a  hundred  a  year  and  extras.  It  was  of  mod- 
erate terms  and  moderate  size ;  the  pupils  being  mostly  sons 
of  well-to-do  tradesmen,  some  of  them  living  on  the  spot.  At 
first,  Blair  (bringing  with  him  his  Cambridge  notions)  enter- 
tained thoughts  of  raising  the  school  to  a  higher  price  and 
standard.  But  it  would  have  been  a  risk  ;  almost  like  begin- 
ning a  fresh  venture.     And  when  he  found  that  the  school 


248  jerry's  gazette. 

paid  well,  and  masters  and  boys  alike  got  on  c<s  mfortably,  he 
dropped  the  wish. 

More  than  two  years  went  by.  One  evening,  early  in  Feb- 
ruary, Mrs.  Blair  Avas  sitting  by  the  parlour  fire  afier  tea,  with 
a  great  boy  on  her  lap,  who  was  forward  with  his  tongue,  and 
could  say  pa-pa,  ma-ma,  and  had  just  begun  to  walk  in  a  totter 
I  don't  think  you  could  have  seen  much  difference  ic.  her  from 
wliat  slie  was  as  Mary  Sanker.  She  had  the  same  neat  kind 
of  dress  and  quiet  manner,  the  fresh  gentle  face  and  sweet 
eyes,  and  the  pretty,  smooth  brown  iiair.  Her  husband  told 
her  sometimes  that  she  would  spoil  the  boys  with  kindness. 
If  any  one  got  into  disgrace,  she  was  sure  to  beg  him  off;  it 
was  wonderful  what  a  good  mother  she  was  to  them,  and  only 
twunty-1'our  years  old  yet. 

Mr.  Blair  was  striding  the  carpet  with  his  head  down,  like 
one  in  perplexed  thonglit,  a  great  scowl  upon  his  brow.  It 
was  something  unusual,  for  he  was  always  bright.  He  was 
as  slender  and  «:ood-loukin<i:  a  follow  as  he  used  to  be.  Mrs. 
Blair  noticed  him  and  spoke. 

"  Have  you  the  headache,  Pyefinch  ? "  She  had  long  ago 
got  over  the  odd  sound  of  his  Christian  name.  Habit  smoothes 
most  things. 

"No." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  » 

lie  did  not  make  any  answer ;  seemed  not  to  hear  her. 
Mrs.  Blair  put  the  boy  down  on  the  hearth-rug.  The  child 
was  baptized  Joseph,  after  Squire  Todhetley,  whom  they  per- 
sisted in  calling  their  best  friend. 

"  Run  to  papa,  Joe.     Ask  him  what  the  matter  is." 

The  young  gentleman  went  swaying  across  the  carpet,  with 
some  unintelliirible  Ian2:ua2:e  of  liis  own.  Mr.  Blair  had  no 
resource  but  to  pick  him  up:  and  he  carried  him  back  to  his 
mother. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Pyefinch  ? "  she  asked  again,  catching 
his  hand.     "  I  am  sure  you  are  not  well." 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  have  got  into  a  Uttle 


jerry's  gazette.  249 

bother  lately.  What  ails  me  this  eyening  is,  that  I  find  I 
must  tell  you  of  it,  and  I  don't  like  to.  Ihere,  Mary,  send 
the  child  away." 

She  knew  the  nursemaid  was  busy ;  would  not  ring,  but 
carried  him  out  herself.  Mr.  Blair  was  sitting  down  when 
ehe  returned,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"  I  had  hoped  you  would  never  know  it,  Mary  ;  I  had  not 
intended  that  you  should.     The  fact  is " 

Mr.  Blair  stopped.  His  wife  glanced  at  him  ;  a  serenely 
earnest  calm  in  her  eyes,  a  firm  reliance  in  her  loving  tone. 

"Do  not  hesitate,  Pyefinch.  The  greater  the  calamity,  the 
more  need  there  is  that  I  should  hear  it." 

"  Nay,  it  is  no  such  great  mischief  as  to  be  called  a  calam- 
ity. When  I  took  to  this  house  and  school,  1  incurred  a  debt, 
and  I  am  suddenly  called  upon  to  pay  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Todhetley's  ? " 

A  passing  smile  at  the  question  crossed  the  schoolmaster's 
face.  "  Mr.  Todhetley's  was  a  present ;  I  thought  you  under- 
stood that,  Mary.  When  I  would  have  spoken  of  returning 
it,  you  may  remember  that  he  went  into  a  passion." 

"  What  debt  is  it,  then  ?  " 

"I  paid  four  hundred  pounds,  you  know,  to  take  to  the 
school ;  half  of  it  I  had  saved  ;  the  other  was  given  by  Mr. 
Todhetley.  Well  and  good  so  far.  But  I  had  not  thought 
of  one  thing — the  money  that  would  be  wanted  for  current 
expenses,  and  for  the  hundred  and  one  odd  things  that  stare 
you  in  the  face  upon  taking  to  a  new  concern.  Repairs  had 
to  be  done,  needful  furniture  to  be  got  in ;  and  not  a  penny 
coming  in  until  the  end  of  the  cpiarter :  not  much  then,  for 
most  of  the  boys  pay  half-yearly.  Lockett,  who  was  down 
here  most  days,  saw  that  if  I  could  not  get  some  money  to  go 
on  with,  there'd  be  no  resource  but  to  re-sell  the  school.  He 
bestirred  himielf,  and  got  me  the  loan  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  from  a  friend,  at  only  five  per  cent,  interest.  This 
money  I  am  suddenly  called  upon  to  repay. 

"  But  why  ? " 


,,  5J 


11 


* 


250  jerry's  gazette. 

"  Because  lie  from  whom  I  had  it  is  dead,  and  the  exeeutow 
have  called  it  in.     It  was  Mr.  Wells." 

She  recognized  the  name  as  that  of  a  gentleman  with  whom 
they  had  been  slightly  acquainted  ;  he  had  died  suddenly,  in 
the  prime  of  life. 

"  Has  any  of  it  been  paid  off?" 

"  None.  I  could  have  repaid  a  portion  every  half-year  at 
it  came  round,  but  Mr.  Wells  would  not  let  me.  '  You  had  a 
great  deal  better  use  it  in  improving  the  school  and  getting 
things  comfortable  about  you  ;  I  am  in  no  hurry,'  was  liis  in- 
variable rejoinder.  Lockett  thought  he  meant  eventually  to 
make  me  a  present  of  the  money,  being  a  wealthy  man,  with- 
out near  relatives.  Of  course  I  never  looked  for  anything  of 
the  sort ;  but  I  was  as  easy  as  to  the  debt  as  though  I  liad  not 
contracted  it." 

"  Will  the  executors  not  let  you  have  the  use  of  the  money 
still?" 

"  You  should  see  their  curt  note,  ordering  its  immediate  re 
payment !     Lockett  seems  more  vexed  at  the  turn  affairs  have 
taken  than  even  I  am.     He  was  here  to-day." 

Mrs.  Blair  sat  in  silent  reflection  wishing  she  had  known 
of  this.  Many  an  odd  shilling  that  she  had  thought  justified 
in  spending,  she  would  willingly  have  recalled  now.  Not 
that  they  could  have  amounted  to  much  in  the  aggregate. 
Presently  she  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Pyefinch,  it  seems  to  me  that  there's  only  one  thing  to  do. 
You  must  borrow  the  sum  from  some  one  else,  which  of 
course  will  make  us  onlv  as  much  in  debt  as  we  are  now  ;  and 
■we  must  pay  it  off  by  instalments  as  quickly  as  we  possibly 
can." 

"  It  is  what  Lockett  and  I  have  decided  on  already  as  the 
only  course.  Why,  Mary,  this  worry  has  been  on  our  minda 
for  a  fortnight  past,"  he  added,  turning  quickly.  "  But  now 
that  it  has  come  to  borrowing  again,  and  not  from  a  friend,  I 
felt  I  ought  to  tell  you.     Besides,  there's  another  thing." 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 


jeeet's  gazette.  251 

"  "We  have  found  a  man  to  advance  the  money.  Lockett 
and  I  picked  liim  out  from  the  Times  advertisements.  These 
fellows  are  awful  rogues,  for  the  most  part ;  but  this  is  not 
one  of  the  worst.  Lockett  made  inquiries  of  a  parishioner  of 
his  who  understands  these  things,  and  finds  Gavitj  (that's  hia 
name)  is  tolerablj-  fair  for  a  professional  money-lender.  I 
shall  have  to  pay  him  higher  interest.  And  he  wants  me  to 
give  him  a  bill  of  sale  on  the  furniture." 

"  A  bill  of  sale  on  the  furniture  !  What  is  that  ? " 
"  That  is  what  I  meant  when  I  said  there  was  another  thing," 
replied  Mr.  Blair.  "  Wells  was  content  with  my  note  of  hand  ; 
this  man  requires  tangible  security  on  my  goods.  It  is  a  mere 
matter  of  form  in  my  case,  he  says.  As  I  am  doing  well,  and 
there's  no  fear  of  my  not  keeping  the  interest  paid  up,  1  sup- 
pose it  is.  In  two  or  three  years  from  this,  all  being  well, 
the  debt  itself  will  be  wiped  off." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  hope  so.  The  school  is  quite  prosperous." 
Her  tone  was  anxious,  and  Mr.  Blair  detected  it.  But  for 
considering  she  ought  to  know  it,  he  would  rather.have  kept 
this  trouble  to  himself.  And  he  was  not  sure  upon  another 
point :  whether,  in  giving  this  bill  of  sale  upon  the  furniture, 
Mr.  Gavity  might  deem  it  essential  to  come  in  and  take  a  list, 
article  by  article,  bed  by  bed,  table  by  table.  If  so,  it  would 
not  liave  been  possible  to  conceal  it  from  her.  He  mentioned 
this.  She,  with  himself,  could  not  undei-stand  the  necessity 
of  their  furniture  beino-  brouo;ht  into  the  transaction  at  all, 
seeing  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  their  ability  to  repay. 
The  one  knew  just  as  much  about  bills  of  sale  and  the  rights 
they  ga\'e,  as  the  other :  and  that  was  nothing. 

And  now  that  the  communication  to  his  wife  was  off  his 
mind — for  in  that  had  lain  the  weight — Mr.  Blair  was  more 
at  ease.  As  they  sat  talking  together,  discussing  the  future 
in  all  its  aspects,  the  shade  lifted  itself,  and  things  looked 
briofhter.  It  did  not  seem  to  either  of  them  so  formidable  a 
cloud  after  all.  It  was  but  the  chano-ins;  the  one  creditor  for 
another,  and  the  paying  a  little  higher  interest. 


252  JEKRT'8   GAZETTE. 

Tlie  ti'finsaction  was  accomplished.  Gavity  advanced  the 
money,  and  took  the  bill  of  sale  upon  the  furniture,  lie  shot 
up  the  expenses — which  money-lenders  of  his  stamp  mostly 
do — and  made  out  the  loan  to  be  a  hundred  and  eighty,  in- 
stead of  a  hundred  and  lifty.  Still,  taking  things  for  all  in 
all,  the  position  was  perhaps  as  fair  and  hopeful  a  one  as  can 
jbe  experienced  under  debt.  It  was  but  a  temporary  clog ; 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blair  both  knew  that.  The  school  was  flourish- 
ing ;  their  prospects  were  good  ;  they  were  young,  and  healthy, 
and  hopeful.  And  though  Mr.  Gavity  would  of  course  exact 
his  rights  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  he  had  no  intention  of 
playing  the  rogue.  In  all  candour  let  it  be  avowed,  the 
glpntleman  money-lender  did  not  see  that  it  was  a  case  afford- 
ing scope  for  it. 


1  had  to  tell  that  much  as  well  as  I  could,  seeing  that  it 
only  came  to  me  by  hearsay  in  the  future. 

And  now  to  go  back  a  little  while,  and  to  ourselves  at  Dyke 
Manor. 

After  their  marriage  the  Squire  did  not  lose  sight  of  Mr  and 
Mrs.  Blair.  A  basket  of  things  went  up  now  and  then,  and 
the  second  Chi-istmas  they  were  invited  to  come  down  ;  but 
Mary  wrote  to  decline,  on  account  of  the  baby — Joe.  "  Let 
them  leave  Joe  at  home,"  cried  Tod  ;  but  Mrs.  Todhetley, 
shaking  her  head,  said  that  the  dear  little  infant  would  come 
to  sad  grief  without  its  mother.  Soon  after  that,  when  the 
Squire  was  in  London,  he  took  the  omnibus  and  went  to  see 
them,  and  told  us  how  comfortably  they  were  getting  on. 

Years  went  round  to  another  Christmas,  when  the  exacting 
Joe  would  be  some  months  over  two  years  old.  In  the  passing 
of  time  you  are  apt  to  lose  sight  of  interests,  unless  they  are 
close  ones ;  and  for  some  months  we  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  Blairs.     Mrs.  Todhetley  spoke  of  it  one  evening. 

"  Send  them  a  Christmas  hamper,"  said  the  Squire. 

The  Christmas  hamper  went.  With  a  turkey  and  ham,  and 
a  brace  of  pheasants  in  it  j  some  bacon  and  apples  to  fill  up, 


jerry's  gazette.  253 

and  sweet  berbs  and  onions.  Lena  put  in  ber  favonrite  doll, 
dressed  as  a  little  motlier,  for  jonng  Joe.  It  bad  a  false  arm  ; 
and  no  legs,  so  to  say  :  liuirh  cut  tbe  feet  off  one  day,  and 
llannab  bad  to  sew  tbe  stumps  up.  We  boped  tbey  would 
enjoy  it  all,  including  tbe  doll,  and  drank  good  luck  to  tbem 
on  Cbristmas  Day. 

A.  week  and  a  balf  went  on,  and  no  news  came.  Mrs.  Tod- 
hetley  grew  uneasy  about  tbe  baraper,  feeling  sure  it  bad  been 
confiscated  by  tbe  railway.  Mary  Blair  bad  always  written 
so  promptly  to  acknowledge  everytbing  sent. 

One  January  day  tbe  letter  came  in  by  tbe  afternoon  post. 
We  knew  Mary's  bandwriting.  Tbe  Squire  and  Madam  were 
at  the  Sterlings',  and  it  was  nine  o'clock  at  nigbt  wben  tbe/ 
drove  injr  Mrs.  Todbetley's  face  acbed,  wbicli  was  quite  cus 
tomary  :  sbe  bad  a  wbite  bandkercbief  tied  round  it.  Wben 
tbey  were  seated  round  tbe  fire,  I  remembered  tbe  letter,  and 
gave  it  to  ber. 

"  Kow  to  bear  tbe  fate  of  tbe  bamper ! "  sbe  exclaimed, 
carrying  it  to  tbe  lamp.  But,  wbat  witli  tbe  face-acbe,  and 
wbat  with  ber  eyes,  wbicb  were  not  so  good  by  candle-ligbt 
as  they  used  to  be,  Mrs.  Todbetley  conld  not  read  the  contents 
off  readily.  Sbe  looked  at  the  writing,  page  after  page, 
and  then  gave  a  short  scream  of  dismay.  Something  was 
wrono;. 

"  Those  thieves  have  grabbed  the  hamper ! "  cried  the 
Squire. 

"  No  ;  I  think  tbe  Blairs  have  bad  tbe  hamper.  I  fear  it 
is  something  worse,"  sbe  said  faintly.  "  Perhaps  you  will  read 
it  aloud." 

The  Squire  put  his  spectacles  on  as  he  took  the  letter.  Wo 
gathered  round  the  table,  waiting.  Mrs.  Todbetley  sat  with 
her  bead  aside,  nursing  her  cheek ;  and  Tod,  who  bad  been 
reading,  put  his  book  down.  Tbe  Squire  hammered  a  good 
deal  over  the  writing,  which  was  not  so  legible  as  Mary's  was 
in  general.  Sbe  appeared  to  have  meant  it  for  Mrs.  Todhetlev 
and  tbe  Squire  jointly. 


254  jerry's  gazette. 

'''My  very  dear  Friends, — If  I  have  delayed  writing  to 
you  it  was  not  for  want  of  in-ingredients  '  " 

"  Ingredients  !  "     Cried  one  of  us. 

"  It  must  be  gratitude,"  corrected  the  Squire.  "  Don't  in- 
terrupt." 

" '  Gratitude  for  your  most  welcome  and  ]i1)eral  present,  but 
because  my  heart  and  hands  have  alike  shrunk  from  the  ex — 
ex — explanation  it  must  entail.  Alas!  a  series  of  very  terri- 
ble misfortunes  have  overvvormed — overwhelmed  us.  We  have 
had  to  gi\'e  up  our  school  and  our  prospects  together,  and  to 
turn  out  of  our  once  happy  dome.'  " 

"Dome!"  put  in  Tod.  ' 

"  I  suppose  it's  home,"  said  the  Squire.  "  This  confounded 
lamp  is  as  dim  as  it  can  be  to- night !  "  And  he  went  on  frac- 
tiously. 

" '  Through  no  fault  of  my  husband's  he  had  to  borrow  a 
hundred  aiul  fifty  pounds  nearly  twelve  months  ago.  The 
man  he  had  it  from  was  a  money-lender,  a  Mr,  Gavity ;  he 
charged  a  high  rate  of  interest,  and  brought  the  costs  up  to 
about  thiity  pounds  ;  but  we  have  no  reason  to  think  he  w^isli- 
ed  to  act  un — unfar — unfairly  by  us.  lie  required  security 
■ — which  I  suppose  was  only  reasonable.  The  lleverend  Mr. 
Lockett  offered  himself  as  such  ;  but  Gavity  said  parsons  were 
slippers.'  " 

"  Good  gracious !  "  said  Mrs.  Todhetley. 

"The  word's  slippery,  I  expect,"  cried  the  Sipiire  with  a 
frown.  "  One  would  think  she  had  emptied  the  water-bottle 
into  the  ink-pot." 

"  '  Gavity  said  parsons  were  slippery ;  meaning  that  they 
were  often  worth  no  more  than  their  word.  He  took,  as  se- 
curitv,  a  bill  of  sale  on  the  furnace.  Stav, — furniture.  Our 
school  was  quite  prosperous  ;  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt 
that  in  a  short  while  the  whole  of  the  debt  could  be  cleared 
off;  so  we  had  no  hesitation  in  letting  him  have  the  bill  of 
Bale.  And  no  harm  would  have  come  of  it,  but  for  one  dread- 
ful misfortune,  which  (as  it  seems)  was  a  necessary  part  of  the 


jebet's  gazette.  265 

a'.iendant  proceedings.     My  husband  got  put  into  Jar — Jci 
•  -Jerry's  Gazelle.' " 

"  Jerrv's  Gazelle  ? " 

"  Jerry's  Gazette,"  corrected  the  Squire. 

"Jerry's  Gazette?" 

The  lot  of  us  spoke  at  once.  He  stared  at  the  letters  and 
then  at  us,     "We  stared  back  again. 

"  It  is  Jerry's  Gazette — as  I  think.     Come  and  see,  Joe." 

Tod  looked  over  the  Squire's  shoulder.  It  certainly  looked 
like  "  Jerry's  Gazette,"  he  said  ;  but  the  ink  was  pale. 

" '  Jerry's  Gazette.'  Go  on,  father.  Perhaps  you'll  lind  an 
explanation  further  on." 

" '  This  Jerry's  Gazette,  it  appears,  is  circulated  chiefly  (and 
I  think  privately)  amongst  comical  men — commercial  men  ; 
merchants,  and  tradespeople.  Wlien  they  read  its  list  of 
names,  they  know  at  once  who  is  in  difficulties.  Of  coui-se 
they  saw  my  husband's  name  there,  Pyefinch  Blair;  n. 'for- 
tunately a  name  so  peculiar  as  not  to  admit  of  doubt.  I  u'd 
not  see  the  Gazette,  but  I  believe  the  amount  of  the  debt  was 
stated,  and  that  Gavity  (but  I  don't  know  whether  he  was  men 
tioned  by  name)  had  a  bill  of  sale  on  our  household  furniture. 

"What  tne  dickens  is  Jerry's  Gazette  ?"  burst  forth  the 
Squire,  giving  the  letter  a  passionate  fling.  "  I  know  but  of 
one  Gazette,  into  which  men  of  all  conditions  go,  whether  they 
are  made  lords  or  bankrupts.     What's  this  other  thing  ?  " 

He  put  up  his  spectacles,  and  stared  at  us  all  again,  as  if 
expecting  an  answer.  But  he  might  as  well  have  asked  it  of 
the  moon.  Mrs.  Todhetley  sat  with  the  most  hopeless  look 
you  ever  saw  on  her  face.     So  he  took  up  the  reading  again. 

" '  We  knew  nothing  about  Jerry's  Gazette  ourselves,  or  that 
there  was  such  a  pub — pub— publication,  or  that  the  trans- 
action had  appeared  in  it ;  and  could  not  imagine  why  the 
Bc.hool  began  to  fall  off.  Some  of  the  pupils  were  taken  away 
at  once,  some  at  Lady-day  ;  and  by  midsummer  nearly  every 
one  had  left.  AYe  used  to  lie  awake  night  after  night,  grieving 
and  wondering  what  could  be  the  matter,  searching  in  vain 


?  J) 


256  jerry's  gazette. 

for  any  canse  of  offence,  given  unwittingly  to  the  boys  or  their 
parents.  Often  and  often  we  got  up  in  the  morning  to  gc 
about  our  day's  work,  never  having  ck)sed  our  eyes.  At  last,  a 
gentleman,  whose  son  had  been  one  of  the  first  renewed — re- 
moved, told  Pyefiuch  the  truth  :  that  he  had  appeared  in  Jerry's 
Gazette.  The  fathers  who  subscribed  to  Jerry's  Gazette  had 
seen  it  for  themselves  ;  and  they  informed  the  others.'" 

"  The  devil  take  Jerry's  Gazette,"  interrupted  Tod,  deliber- 
ately. 

"  This  reads  like  an  episode  of  the  Secret  Inquisition,  sir,  in 
the  days  of  the  French  Revolution." 

"It  reads  like  a  thins;  that  an  honest  Enirlishman's  ears  oucjht 
to  redden  to  hear  of,"  answered  the  Squire,  as  he  lifted  the 
lamp  nearer,  for  his  outstretched  ai'ms  were  getting  cramped. 

'' '  Pyefiuch  went  round  to  every  one  of  the  boys'  fathers. 
Some  would  not  see  him,  some  not  hear  him  ;  but  to  those  who 
did,  he  imported — imparted — the  whole  circumstances  ;  show- 
ing how  it  was  he  had  had  to  borrow  the  money  (or  rather  to 
re-l)OiT()w  it,  but  I  have  not  time  in  this  letter  to  go  so  far  into 
detail),  and  that  it  could  not  by  any  possibilit}'  injure  the  boys 
or  touch  their  interests.  Most  of  them,  he  said,  were  very 
kind  and  sympathising,  so  far  as  words  went,  saying  that  in 
tiiis  case  Jerry's  Gazette  appeared  to  have  been  the  means  of 
inflicting  a  cruel  wrong;  but  they  would  not  agree  to  replace 
their  sons  with  us.  They  either  declined  point-blank,  or  said 
they'd  consider  of  it ;  but  you  see  the  greater  portion  of  the 
boys  were  already  placed  at  other  schools.  All  of  them  told 
Pyefiuch  one  thing — that  they  were  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
his  treatment  in  every  respect,  and  but  for  this  interruption 
would  probably  have  left  their  sons  with  him  as  long  as  they 
wanted  intrusion — instruction.  The  long  and  short  of  it  was 
this,  mv  dear  friends:  thev  did  not  choose  to  have  their  sons 
educated  by  a  man  who  was  looked  upon  in  the  commercial 
world  as  next  door  to  a  bankrupt.  One  of  them  delicately 
hinted  as  much,  and  said  Mr.  Blair  must  be  aware  that  he  was 
liable  to  have  his  house  topped — stripped — at  any  moment 


jekky's  gazette.  257 

under  the  bill  of  sale.  "We  said  to  ourselves  that  evening,  aa 
Pjefinch  and  I  talked  together,  that  vre  might  have  removed 
boys  of  our  own  from  a  school  nnder  the  like  circumstances.' " 

"  That's  true  enough,"  murmured  Mrs.  Todhetlej. 

"  '  My  letter  has  grown  very  long  and  I  must  hasten  to  con- 
chide  it.  Just  before  the  rent  was  due  at  Michaelmas  (we 
paid  it  half-yearly,  by  agreement)  Gavity  put  the  bill  of  sale 
into  force.  One  morning  several  men  came  in  and  swept  off 
the  furniture.  We  were  turned  out  next :  though  indeed  to 
have  attempted  to  remain  in  that  large  house  were  folly.  The 
landlord  camo  in  a  passion,  and  told  Pyefinch  that  he  would 
put  him  in  prison  if  he  were  worth  it ;  as  he  was  not,  he  had 
better  go  out  of  the  pitch — place — forthwith,  as  another  tenant 
was  ready  to  take  possession.  Since  then  we  have  been  stay- 
ing here,  Pyefinch  vainly  seeking  to  get  some  profitable  em- 
ployment. What  we  hoped  was,  that  he  would  obtain  an  un- 
der-mastership  to  some  public  fool ■'  " 

"  Fool,  sir !  " 

" '  School.  But  it  seems  difiicult.  He  sends  his  best  regai-da 
to  you,  and  bids  me  say  that  the  reason  you  have  not  heard 
from  us  so  long  is,  that  we  could  not  bear  to  tell  you  the  ill 
news  after  your  former  kindness  to  us.  The  arrival  of  the 
hamper  leaves  us  no  resource. 

"  '  Thank  you  for  that.  Thank  you  very  truly.  The  people 
at  the  old  house  have  our  address,  and  re-directed  it  here.  We 
received  it  early  on  Christmas  Eve.  II<^w  good  the  things 
were,  you  do  not  need  to  be  told.  I  stuffed  the  turkey — I  shall 
make  a  famous  cook  in  time — and  sent  it  to  the  backhouse — 
bakehouse.  You  should  have  seen  the  pill — picture — it  was 
when  it  came  home.  Believe  me,  my  dear  friends,  we  are 
both  of  us  grateful  for  all  your  kindness  to  us,  present  and 
past.  Little  Joe  is  so  delighted  with  the  doll ;  he  scarcely 
puts  it  out  of  his  arms.  Our  best  love  to  all ;  including  Hugh 
and  Lena.  Thank  Johnny  for  the  beautiful  new  book  he  put 
in.  I  must  apologize  in  conclusion  for  my  w  -iting;  the  ink 
we  get  in  these  penny  bottles  is  pale ;  aid  baby  has  been  en 


258  jerry's  gazette. 

my  lap  all  the  time,  never  easy  a  minute.  Do  not  say  any 
thing  of  all  this,  please,  should  you  be  writing  to  Wales.  Ever 
most  truly  youi-s,  "  '  Mary  I3laik. 

"  '  13,  Difford's  Buildings,  Paddington.'  " 

The  Squire  put  the  letter  down  and  his  spectaeles  on  it, 
quite  solemnly.  You  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  that 
room. 

"  This  is  a  thing  that  must  be  inquired  into.  I  shall  go  up 
to-morrow." 

"  And  I'd  go  too,  sir,  but  for  my  engagement  to  the  Whit- 
neys,"  said  Tod. 

"  She  must  mean,  in  speakmg  of  a  baby,  that  there's  an- 
other," spoke  Mrs.  Todhetley,  in  a  frightened  sort  of  whisper, 
"  besides  little  Joe.     Dear  me ! " 

"  1  don't  understand  it,"  stamped  the  Squire,  getting  red. 

"Turned  out  of  house  and  home  through  Jeri-y's  Gazette  1 
Do  we  live  in  England,  I'd  like  to  ask  ? — under  English  laws? 
■ — cnioviu"-  Eniii-lish  ri<>:hts  and  freedom?  Jerry's  Gazette? 
What  the  deuce  is  Jerry's  Gazette  ?  Where  does  it  come  out 
of?  AVhat  issues  it?  The  Lord  Chamberlain's  Office? — or 
Scotland  Yard? — or  some  Patent  society  that  we've  not  heard 
of,  down  here?  The  girl  must  have  been  imposed  upon:  her 
Btatement  won't  hold  water." 

"It  looks  as  though  she  had  been,  sir." 

"  Looks  like  it,  Johnny  !  it  must  be  so,"  said  the  Squire,  get- 
ting warmer.  "  I  have  temporary  need  of  a  loan  of  money, 
and  1  borrow  it  in  straiglitforward  fairness,  honestly  proposing 
and  undertaking  to  pay  it  back  with  good  interest,  but  not 
exactly  wanting  my  neighbours  to  know  ;  and  you'd  like  me 
to  believe  that  there's  some  association,  or  publication,  or  what- 
ever else  it  may  be,  that  won't  allow  this  to  be  done  privately, 
but  must  pounce  upon  the  transaction,  and  take  it  down  in 
print,  and  send  it  round  to  the  public,  just  as  if  it  were  a  wed- 
ding or  a  burying  I  " 

The  Squire  had  grown  redder  th'^n  a  roost-cock.     lie  alwajft 


jerry's  gazette.  259 

did  when  tremendously  put  out,  and  the  matter  would  not 
admit  of  calling  in  old  Jones  the  constable. 

"  Folly  !  Moousliine !  Blair,  poor  fellow,  has  been  slipping 
into  some  damaging  disaster,  had  his  furniture  seized,  and  sc 
invents  this  fable  to  appease  his  wife,  not  liking  to  tell  lier  the 
truth.  Jerry's  Gazette  !  When  1  was  a  youngster,  my  father 
took  me  to  see  an  exhibition  in  Worcester  called  '  Jerry's  Doo-s.' 
The  worst  damage  you  could  get  there  was  a  cold,  from  the 
holes  in  the  canvas  roof,  or  a  pitcli  over  the  front  into  the 
sawdust.  But  in  Jerry's  Gazette,  according  to  this  tale,  you 
may  be  damaged  for  life.  Don't  tell  me !  Do  we  live  in 
Austria,  or  France,  or  any  of  those  places,  where — as  it's  said 
— a  man  can't  so  much  as  put  on  a  pair  of  clean  stockings  in 
a  morning,  but  it's  laid  before  high  quarters  in  black  and  white 
at  mid-day  by  the  secret  police!  No,  you  need  not  tell  me 
that." 

"  I  never  heard  of  Jerry's  Gazette  in  all  my  life ;  I  don't 
know  whetlier  it  is  a  stage  performance  or  something  to  eat ; 
but  I  feel  convinced  Mai-y  Blair  would  not  write  this  without 
having  some  good  grounds  for  it,"  said  Tod,  bold  as  usual. 

And  do  you  know — though  you  may  be  slow  to  believe  it 
— rhe  Squire  had  taken  latterly  to  listen  to  him.  He  turned 
his  old  red  face  on  him  now,  and  some  of  its  fierceness  went 
out  of  it. 

"  Then,  Joe,  all  I  can  say  is  this — that  English  honour  and 
English  notions  have  changed  uncommonly  from  what  they 
used  to  be.  '  Live  and  let  live '  was  one  of  our  mottoes  ;  and 
most  of  us  tried  to  act  up  to  it.  1  know  no  more  of  this," 
striking  his  hand  on  the  letter,  "  than  you  know,  boys ;  and  I 
cannot  think  but  that  she  must  have  been  nnder  some  un- 
accountable mistake  in  writing  it.  Any  way,  I'll  go  up  to 
London  to-morrow :  and  if  you  like,  Johnny,  you  can  go  with 
me." 

We  went  up.  I  did  not  feel  sure  of  it  until  the  train  was 
off,  for  Tod  seemed  three-parts  inclined  to  give  np  the  shoo^ 
ing  at  the  Whitneys',  and  start  for  London  instead  ;  in  which 


260  jerry's  gazette. 

case  the  Squire  might  not  have  taken  me.  Tod  and  somo 
more  young  fellows  were  invited  to  "Whitney  Hall  for  three 
days,  to  a  shooting-match. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  I'eached  London,  and  as  cold  as  charity. 
The  Squire  turned  into  the  railway  hotel  and  had  some  chop? 
served,  but  did  not  wait  for  a  regular  dinner.  When  once  ho 
was  in  for  impatience,  he  was  in  for  it. 

"  Difford's  Buildings,  Paddington,"  had  been  the  address^ 
BO  we  thought  it  would  not  be  far  to  go.  The  Squire  held  on 
in  his  way  along  the  crowded  streets,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
set  things  straight  to  rights,  elbowing  the  people,  and  asking 
the  road  at  every  turn.  Some  did  not  know  Difford's  Build- 
insrs,  and  some  directed  us  wronMv ;  but  we  scot  there  at  last. 
It  was  in  a  narrow,  quiet  street ;  a  row  of  what  Londoners 
call  eight-roomed  houses,  v>'ith  little  gates  opening  to  the 
square  patches  of  smoky  garden,  and  "  Difford's  Buildings  " 
written  up  as  large  as  life  at  the  corner. 

"  Let's  see,"  said  the  Squire,  looking  sideways  at  the  win- 
dows.    "  Number  tliirtcen,  was  it  not,  Johnny  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

Difford's  Buildings  was  not  well  lighted,  and  there  was  no 
seeing  the  numbers.  The  Squire  stopped  before  the  one  he 
thought  must  be  thirteen  ;  when  somebody  came  out  at  the 
house-door,  sliutting  it  behind  him,  and  encountered  us  at  the 
e-ate.  A  youno-ish  clergyman  in  a  white  necktie.  He  and 
the  Squire  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  the  semi- darkness. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  Mr.  Blair  lives  here  %  " 

"  Yes,  he  does,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  think — I  think  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Todhetley." 

The  Squire  knew  him  then — the  Rev.  Mr.  Lockett.  They 
had  met  when  Blair  first  took  to  the  school. 

"  What  is  all  this  extraordinary  history  ?  "  burst  forth  the 
Squire,  seizing  him  by  the  button  of  his  great-coat,  and  taking 
him  a  few  gates  further  on.  "Mrs.  Blair  has  been  writing 
us  a  strange  rigmarole,  which  nobody  can  make  head  or  tail  of ; 
about  ruin,  and  sales,  and  something  she  calls  Jerry's  Gazette." 


jekry's  gazette.  261 

"  Ay,"  quietly  answered  the  clergyman  in  a  tone  of  pain,  aa 
he  put  his  arm  inside  the  Squire's,  and  they  paced  slowly  up 
and  down.  "  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  histories  my  experience 
has  ever  had  to  do  with." 

The  Squire  was  near  coming  to  an  explosion  in  the  open 
street.  '*  Will  you  be  pleased  to  tell  me,  sir,  whether  there 
exists  such  a  thing  as  Jerry's  Gazette,  or  whether  it  is  a  fable  ? 
1  have  heard  of  Jerry's  Performing  Dogs ;  went  to  see  'em 
once  :  but  I  don't  know  what  this  other  invention  can  be." 

"  Certainly  there  is  such  a  thing,"  said  Mr.  Lockett.  "  It  is, 
I  fancy,  a  list  of  people  who  unfortunately  get  into  difficulties  ; 
at  least,  people  who  fall  into  difficulties  seem  to  get  published 
in  it.  I  am  told  it  is  meant  chiefly  for  private  circulation  : 
wliich  may  imply,  as  I  imagine  (but  here  I  may  be  wrong) 
what  may  be  called  secret  circulation.  Blair  had  occasion 
to  borrow  a  little  money,  and  his  name  appeared  in  it.  From 
that  moment  he  was  a  marked  man,  and  his  school  fell  off." 

"  Goodness  bless  my  soul !  "  cried  the  Squire  solemnly, 
completely  taken  aback  at  hearing  Mary's  letter  confirmed. 
"  Who  gives  Jerry's  Gazette  the  right  to  do  this  \  " 

"  I  don't  know  abc)Ut  the  right.     It  seems  it  has  the  power." 

"  It  is  a  power  I  never  heard  of  before,  sir.  We've  got  a 
parson,  down  our  way,  who  tells  us  every  Sunday  the  world's 
coming  to  an  end.  I  think  it  must  be.  I  know  it's  getting 
too  clever  for  me  to  understand.  If  a  man  has  the  misfortune 
(perhaps  after  years  of  private  struggle  that  nobody  knows 
anything  about  but  himself)  to  break  up  at  last,  he  goes  into 
the  land's  Gazette  in  a  straightforward  manner,  and  the  pub- 
lic read  it  over  their  breakfast-tables,  and  thei-e's  notliing 
underhand  about  it.  But  as  to  this  other  thing — if  I  compre- 
hend the  matter  rio-htlv — Blair  did  not  as  much  as  know  of  its 
existence,  or  that  his  name  was  going  into  it." 

"  I  am  sure  he  did  not;  or  I,  either,"  said  Mr.  Lockett. 

"I'd  like  its  meaning  explained,  then,"  cried  the  Squire 
getting  hotter  and  angrier.  '^  Is  it  a  fair,  upright,  honeBl 
thing ;  or  is  it  a  kuid  of  Spanish  Inquisition  ? " 


262  jerry's  gazette. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  answered  the  parson,  as  they  both  stood 
still,  "Mr.  Blair  was  informed  by  the  father  of  one  of  liia 
pupils  that  he  believed  the  sheet  was  first  of  all  set  up  as  a 
speculation,  and  was  found  to  answer  so  well  that  it  became 
quite  an  institution.     I  do  not  know  whether  this  is  true." 

"  I  have  heard  of  an  institution  for  idiots,  but  I  never  heard 
of  one  for  selling  up  men's  chairs  and  tables,"  stormed  the 
Squiie  "  No,  sir,  and  1  don't  believe  it  now.  I  might  take 
up  my  standing  to-morrow  on  the  top  of  the  Monument,  and 
say  to  the  public,  'Here  I  am,  and  I'll  ferret  out  what  I  can 
about  you,  and  whisper  it  to  one  another  of  you ;'  and  so,  bring 
a  serpent's  trail  on  the  unsuspecting  heads,  and  altogether 
play  Old  Gooseberry  with  the  crowds  below  me.  Do  you  sup. 
pose,  sir,  the  Lord  Chancellor  would  wink  his  eye  at  me,  stuck 
aloft  there  at  my  work,  and  would  tolei-ate  such  a  spectacle  ?  " 

"  I  fear  the  Lord  Cliancellor  has  not  much  to  do  with  it," 
said  Mr.  Lockett,  smiling  at  the  Squire's  logic. 

"  Then  suppose  we  say  good  men — public  opinion — com- 
mercial justice  and  honour  ?     Come !  " 

lie  shook  the  frail  railings,  on  which  his  hand  was  resting, 
till  they  nearly  came  to  grief.  Mr.  Lockett  related  the  par- 
ticulai-s  of  the  transaction  from  the  beginning  ;  the  original 
debt,  which  Blair  was  suddenly  called  upon  to  pay  off,  and 
the  contraction  of  the  one  to  Gavity.  He  said  that  he  him- 
self had  had  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  Bhiii',  in  the  capacity  of 
friend  and  adviser,  and  felt  almost  as  though  he  were  resjKm- 
sible  for  the  turn  affairs  had  taken  ;  which  had  caused  hiin 
scarcely  to  enjoy  an  easy  moment  since.  The  Squire  began  to 
abuse  Gavity,  but  Mr.  Lockett  said  that  the  num  did  not  appear 
p)  have  had  any  ill  intention.  As  to  his  having  sold  off  the 
goods — 'if  he  had  }U)t  sold  them,  the  landlord  vrould. 

"And  what's  Blair  doing  now  ?"  asked  Mi-.  Todhetley. 

"  Battliui'  with  illness  for  his  life,"  said  the  clerijvmaii. 
"  I  have  just  been  praying  with  him." 

The  Squire  retreated  to  the  laiiq)-post,  as  if  somebody  had 
knocked  him  backwards.     Mr.  Lockett  explained  further. 


jerry's  gazette.  263 

It  was  in  September  that  they  had  left  their  home.  His  own 
lodging  and  the  cliurch  of  which  he  was  curate  were  in  Pad- 
diiigton,  and  he  found  rooms  for  Blair  and  his  wife  in  the  same 
neighbourhood — two  parlours  in  Diiford's  Buildings.  Blair 
(who  had  lost  heart  terj-iblj,  so  as  to  be  good  for  little)  spared 
no  time  or  exertion  in  seeking  for  something  to  do.  He  tried 
to  get  in  at  King's  College  ;  they  liked  his  appearance  and 
testimonials,  but  at  present  had  no  vacancy  :  he  tried  in  private 
schools  for  an  ushership ;  but  he  did  not  get  one :  nothing 
seemed  to  be  vacant  just  then.  Then  he  tried  for  a  clerk's 
place.  Day  after  day,  sick  or  well,  rain  or  fine,  breakfastless 
or  full  of  bread,  he  went  tramping  about  London  streets.  At 
last,  one  of  those  who  had  had  sons  at  his  school,  gave  him 
some  out-door  employment — the  making  known  a  new  inven- 
tion from  shop  to  shop,  and  soliciting  customers  for  it :  Blair  to 
be  paid  on  commission  according  to  his  success.  Naturally,  he 
did  not  let  weather  stop  him,  and  would  come  home  to  Difford's 
Buildings  at  night,  wet  through.  There  had  been  a  great  deal 
of  rain  in  November  and  December.  But  he  got  wet  once 
too  often,  and  was  attacked  with  rheumatic  fever.  The  fever 
was  better  now  ;  the  weakness  it  had  left  was  more  dangerous. 

"  She  did  not  say  anything  about  this  in  her  letter,"  inter- 
rupted the  Squire  resentfully,  when  Mr.  Lockett  had  explained 
so  far. 

"  Blair  told  her  not  to.  He  thought  if  their  position  were 
revealed  to  the  friends  who  had  once  shown  themselves  so  kind, 
it  might  look  alnn)st  like  begging  for  help  again." 

"  Blair's  a  fool !  "  roai-ed  the  Squire. 

"  Mrs.  Blair  has  not  made  the  worst  of  it  to  her  family  in 
Wales.  It  would  only  distress  them,  she  says,  for  they  could 
not  help  her.  Mr.  Sanker  has  been  ill  again  for  some  time 
past,  has  not  been  allowed,  I  believe,  to  draw  his  full  salajy^ 
and  there's  no  doubt  they  want  every  penny  of  their  means 
for  themselves  ;  and  more  too." 

"  How  have  they  lived  here?'  asked  the  Squire,  as  we  went 
back  slowl}^  to  the  gate. 


264  JERRY*S    GAZETTE. 

"  Blair  earned  a  little  commission  while  he  could  get  ajout; 
and  I'is  wife  has  been  enabled  to  procure  some  kind  of  wool- 
work from  a  warehouse  in  the  city,  which  pays  her  very  well,'- 
said  the  clergyman,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  as  if  he 
feai-ed  to  be  heard  through  the  shutters.  "  Unfortunately 
thert/'s  the  baby  to  take  up  much  of  her  time.  It  was  born 
Ut  October,  soon  after  they  got  in  there." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  business  there  has  to  be 
«  baby  ? "  cried  the  Squire,  who  was  like  a  man  off  his  head. 
*'  Couldn't  the  baby  have  waited  to  come  at  a  more  convenient 
»sci»s'>n  ? " 

"  It  might  have  been  better  ;  it  is  certainly  a  troublesome, 
crying  little  thing,"  said  the  parson.  "  Yes,  you  can  go  straight 
in  :  the  parlour  door  is  on  the  right.  I  have  a  service  this 
evening  at  seven,  and  shall  be  late  for  it.  This  is  your  son,  I 
presume,  sir  ?" 

"  My  son !  law  bless  you !  My  son  is  a  strapping  young 
fellow,  six  feet  two  in  his  stockings.    This  is  Johnny  Ludlow." 

He  shook  hands  pleasantly,  and  w^as  good  enough  to  say  he 
had  heard  of  me.  The  Squire  went  on,  and  I  with  him. 
There  was  no  Uimi)  in  the  passage,  and  we  had  to  feel  on  the 
right  for  the  parlour  door. 

"  Come  in,"  called  out  Mary,  in  answer  to  the  knock.  I 
knew  her  voice  again. 

We  can't  help  our  thoughts.  Things  come  into  the  mind 
w'ithout  leave  or  license  ;  and  it  is  no  use  saying  they  ought 
not  to,  or  asking  why  they  do.  Nearly  close  opjiosite  the  door 
in  the  small  room  was  the  lire-])lace.  Mary  Blair  sat  on  a  low 
stool  before  it,  doing  some  work  with  coloured  wools  with  a  big 
hooked  needle,  a  baby,  in  white,  lying  flat  on  her  lap,  and  the 
little  chap,  Joe,  sitting  at  her  feet.  All  in  a  moment  it  put 
me  in  mind  of  Mrs.  Lease,  sitting  on  her  stool  before  the  lire 
that  day  long  ago  (tliough  in  point  of  fact,  as  I  discovered 
afterwards,  hers  had  Ik'lmi  a  bucket  turned  upside  down)  with 
the  sick  child  on  her  lap,  and  the  other  little  ones  lound  her. 
Why  this,  to-night,  sb  ndd  have  reminded  me  of  that  other,  I 


JERKY  S    GAZETTE.  265 

cannot  sav,  but  it  did  :  and  in  the  Lio-ht  of  an  omen.  You 
must  ridicule  me  if  you  choose :  it  is  not  my  fault ;  and  I  am 
telling  nothing  but  the  truth.  Lease  had  died.  Would  Pye- 
fiuch  Blair  die  ? 

The  Squire  went  in  gingerly,  as  if  he  had  been  treading  on 
a  spiked  ploughshare.  The  candle  stood  on  tl'.o  mantel-piece, 
a  table  was  pushed  back  under  the  window.  Altogether  the 
room  was  poor,  and  a  small  saucepan  simmered  on  the  hob  by 
the  fire.  Mary  turned  her  head,  and  got  up  with  a  flushed 
face,  letting  the  work  fall  on  the  baby's  white  nightgown,  aa 
she  held  out  her  hand.  Little  Joe,  a  stui-dy  fellow  in  a  scarlet 
frock,  with  big  brown  eyes,  backed  against  the  Mall  by  the  fire- 
place and  stood  staring,  Lena's  doll  held  for  safety-  under  his 
pinafore,  its  legs  projecting  upwards. 

She  lost  her  presence  of  mind.  The  Squire  was  the  veriest 
old  stupid,  when  he  wanted  to  make-believe,  that  you'd  see  in 
a  winter's  day.  lie  began  saying  something  about  "happen- 
ing to  be  hi  town,  and  so  called."  But  he  broke  down,  and 
blurted  out  the  truth.  "We've  come  to  see  after  you,  my 
dear ;  and  to  learn  what  all  this  trouble  means." 

And  then  she  broke  down.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  us, 
recalling  the  old  time  at  Dvke  Manor,  when  the  future  looked 
so  fair  and  h:)pj)y  ;  perhaps  it  was  the  mention  of  the  trouble. 
She  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  the  tears  rained 
throuy-h  her  fino-ers. 

"  Shut  the  door  for  me,  will  you,  Johnny,"  she  M'hispered. 
"Very  softly." 

It  was  the  other  door  she  pointed  to,  one  at  the  end  of  the 
room,  and  I  latched  it  without  noise.  Save  for  a  sob  now  and 
again,  that  she  kept  as  silent  as  she  could,  the  grief  passed. 
Young  Joe,  frightened  at  matters,  suddenly  went  at  her,  full 
butt,  and  hid  his  eyes  in  her  petticoats  with  a  I'oar.  I  took 
him  on  my  knee  and  got  him  round  ao;ain.  Somehow  chil- 
dren  are  never  afi-aid  of  me.  The  Squire  rubbed  up  his  old 
red  nose,  and  said  he  had  a  cold. 

But,  was  she  not  altered !    Now  that  the  flush  had  faded, 


26<j  jerry's  gazette. 

and  the  emotion  passed,  tlie  once  sweet,  frcsli,  blcioniing  face 
stood  out  in  its  naked  reality.  Sweet,  indeed,  it  was  still ; 
but  the  bloom  and  freshness  had  given  place  to  a  haggard 
look,  and  to  dark  circles  round  the  soft  brown  eyes,  weary  now. 

She  had  no  more  to  tell  of  the  past  calamities  than  her 
letter  and  Mr.  Lockett  had  told.  Jerry's  Gazette  was  the  sore 
point  with  the  Squire,  but  she  seemed  not  to  understand  it 
better  than  we  did. 

"  1  want  to  know  one  thing,"  said  he,  quite  fiercely.  "  How 
did  Jerry's  Gazette  get  at  the  transaction  between  your  hus- 
band and  Gavity  ?  Did  Gavity  go  to  it,  open-mouthed,  with 
the  news  ? " 

Mary  did  not  know.  She  had  heard  something  about  h 
register — that  the  bill  of  sale  had  to  be  registered  somewhere, 
and  thought  Jerry's  Gazette  might  have  got  at  the  informa- 
tion fi'om  that  source. 

"  Heaven  bless  us  all  ! "  cried  the  Squire.  "  Can't  a  man 
borrow  a  bit  of  money  but  it  must  become  known  to  his  ene- 
mies, if  he's  got  any,  bringing  them  downi  upon  him  like  a 
pack  of  wolves  in  full  cry  ?  This  used  to  be  the  freest  land 
on  eaith." 

The  baby  began  to  scream.  She  put  down  tlie  wool-work, 
and  hushed  it  to  her.  I  am  sure  the  Squire  had  half  a  mind 
to  tell  her  to  give  it  a  gentle  shaking.  He  looked  upon 
ecreaming  babies  as  natural  enemies :  the  truth  is,  with  all 
his  abuse,  he  was  afraid  of  them. 

"  Has  it  got  a  name  ?  "  he  asked  grufHy. 

"  Yes — Mary  :  he  wished  it,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  end 
door.  "I  thought  we  should  have  to  call  it  Polly,  in  contra- 
distinction to  mine." 

Polly  !  That  was  another  coincidence.  Lease's  eldest  girl 
was  P<jlly.  And  what  made  her  speak  of  things  in  the  past 
tense  If  She  caught  me  looking  at  her  ;  she  caught,  I  am  afi'aid, 
the  fear  on  my  face.  I  told  her  in  a  hurry  that  little  Joe 
must  be  a  Dutchman,  for  not  a  word  could  1  understand  oi 
the  lale  he  was  whispering  about  his  doll. 


jickry's  gazette.  2G7 

Wliat  wilt  Mary's  work,  and  the  little  earned  by  Blair  while 
he  was  about,  they  had  not  wanted  for  necessaries  in  a  plain 
way.  1  suppose  Lockett  took  care  they  should  not :  bui  he 
was  only  a  curate. 

The  baby  needed  its  supper,  to   judge  by  the  squealing 
Mary  poured  the  contents  of  the  saucepan — some  thin  gruel 
—  into  a  saucei',  and  began  feeding  the  little  mite  by  teaspoon- 
fuls,  putting  each  one  to  her  own  lips  first  to  test  its  coolness. 

*'  That's  poor  stuff  for  it,"  cried  the  Squire,  in  a  half-pitying, 
lialf-cross  tone,  his  mind  divided  between  resentment  against 
babies  in  general  and  sympathy  with  this  one.  As  the  baby 
was  there,  of  course  it  had  to  be  fed,  but  what  he  wanted  to 
know  was,  why  it  need  have  come  just  when  trouble  waa 
al)oiit.  When  put  out,  he  had  no  reason  at  all.  Mrs.  Blair 
suddenly  turned  her  face  towards  the  end  door,  listening;  and 
we  heard  a  faint  voice  calling  "  Mary." 

"  Joe,  dear,  go  and  tell  papa  that  I  will  be  with  him  in 
one  minute." 

The  little  chap  slid  down,  leaving  me  his  doll  to  nurse,  and 
went  pattering  across  the  carpet,  standing  on  tiptoe  to  open 
the  door.  The  Squij-e  said  he  should  like  to  go  in  and  see 
Blair.     Mary  went  on  first  to  warn  him  of  our  advent. 

My  goodness  1  That  Pyefiuch  Blair,  who  used  to  flourish 
bis  cane,  and  cock  it  over  us  boys  at  Frost's!  I  should  nevei 
have  known  him  for  the  same. 

He  lay  in  bed,  too  weak  to  raise  his  head  from  the  pillow, 
the  white  skin  drawn  tightly  over  his  hollow  features ;  and 
the  cheek-bones  taking;  a  tino-e  of  colour  as  he  w'atched  us 
coming.  And  again  I  thought  of  Lease;  for  the  same  grey 
look  was  on  his  face  that  had  been  on  his  when  he  was  dving. 

''  Lord  bless  us ! "  cried  the  Squire,  in  what  would  have 
been  a  solenm  tone  but  for  sur])rise.  And  Mr.  Blair  began 
faintly  to  offer  a  kind  of  apology  for  his  illness,  hoping  he 
should  soon  get  over  it  now. 

It  was  nothing  but  the  awful  look,  putting  one  unpleas- 
antly in  mind  of  death,  that  kept  the  Squire  from  breaking 


268  jerry's  gazette. 

out  with  a  storm  of  abuse  all  round.  Why  could  they  not 
have  sent  word  to  Dvke  Manor,  he  wanted  to  know.  As  to 
askinL?  particulars  about  Jerry's  Gazette,  which  the  Squire's 
tongue  was  bui-ning  for,  Blair  was  too  far  gone.  While  we 
Btood  there  the  doctor  came  in  ;  a  little  man  in  spectacles,  a 
fiiend  of  iVir.  Lockett's.  lie  told  lilair  he  was  getting  on  all 
right,  spoke  to  Mi's.  Blaii-,  and  took  his  departure.  The 
Squire,  wishing  good-night  in  a  hurry,  went  out  after  the 
doctoi-,  and  collared  him  as  he  was  walking  up  the  street. 

"  Won't  he  get  over  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  1  am  afraid  not.  His  state  of  weakness  is 
alarmiiig." 

The  Squire  turned  on  him  with  a  storm,  just  as  though  he 
had  known  him  for  years:  asking  nhy  on  earth  Blair's  friends 
(meaning  himself)  had  not  been  written  to,  and  promising  a 
prosecution  if  he  let  him  die.  The  doctor  took  it  sensibly, 
and  was  as  cool  as  iced  water. 

"  We  medical  men  are  gifted  at  best  but  with  human  skill, 
sir,"  he  said,  looking  the  Squire  full  in  the  face. 

"  Blair  is  youns: — not  much  turned  thirty." 

''The  young  die  as  well  as  the  old,  when  it  pleases  Heaven 
to  take  them." 

"  But  it  doesn't  please  HeaveTi  to  take  /wm,"  retorted  the 
Squire,  worked  up  to  the  pitch  that  he  was  not  accountable 
for  liis  words.  "But  that  you  seem  in  earnest,  young  man, 
probably  meaning  no  irreverence,  I'd  ask  you  how  you  dare 
briuir  Heaven's  name  into  such  a  case  as  this?  Did  Heaven 
fling  him  out  of  house  and  home  into  Jerry's  Gazette,  do  y<>u 
suppose?  Or  did  man?  Man  did,  sir:  selfish,  hard,  unjust 
man.     Don't  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Doctor,  about  Heaven." 

"All  1  wished  to  imply,  sir,  was,  that  Mr.  Blair's  life  is  not 
in  my  power,  or  in  that  of  any  human  hands,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, when  he  had  listened  quietly  to  the  end.  "  I  will  do  my 
best  to  bring  him  round  ;  I  can  do  no  more." 

"  You  must  bring  him  round." 

"  There  can  be  no  '  must '  in  regard  to  it :  and  I  doubt  if 


jerry's  gazette.  2('t9 

he  is  to  be  brought  round.  Mr.  Blair  has  not  i:atnrallj' 
a  large  amount  of  what  we  call  stamina,  and  the  illness  lias 
laid  a  verv  serious  lu)ld  of  him.  It  would  be  something  in 
his  favour  if  the  mind  were  at  ease :  which  of  course  it  can- 
not be  under  his  circumstances." 

"Now  look  here — you  just  say  outright  he  is  going  to  die," 
stormed  fhe  Squire.  "Say  it  and  have  done  with  it.  I  liko 
people  to  be  honest." 

"But  I  cannot  say  he  is.  Possiljly  he  may  get  well.  Ilia 
life  and  his  death  both  seem  to  hang  on  the  turn  of  a  thread." 

"And  there's  that  squealing  young  image  within  ear-shot! 
Could  Blair  be  <;ot  down  to  mv  place  in  the  country?  You 
might  come  with  him  if  yon  liked.     There's  some  shooting." 

"Not  yet  awhile.  It  would  kill  him.  What  we  have  to 
ftght  against  now  is  the  weakness  :  and  a  fight  it  is." 

The  Squire's  face  was  rueful.  "Tliis  London  has  a  repu- 
tation for  clever  physicians:  you  pick  out  the  best,  and  bring 
him  here  with  you  to-morrow  morning.     Do  yon  hear,  sir?" 

"I  will  brino;  one,  if  vou  wish  it.     It  is  n(jt  essential." 

"Not  essential!"  wrathfully  echoed  the  Squire.  "If 
Blaii-'s  recovery  is  not  essential,  perhaps  you'll  tell  me,  sir, 
whose  is!  What  is  to  become  of  his  poor  young  wife  if  he 
dies? — and  the  little  fellow  with  the  doll?  — and  that  cross- 
grained  pujtpet  in  white?  Who  will  provide  for  them?  Let 
me  tell  you,  tsir,  that  I  won't  have  him  die — if  doctors  can 
keep  him  fi-om  it.  lie  belongs  to  me  sii-,  in  a  manner:  he 
saved  my  st)n's  life — as  tine  a  fellow  as  you  could  set  eyea 
on,  six  feet  two  without  his  boots.  Not  essential !  What 
next  ? " 

"It  is  not  so  much  medical  skill  he  requires  now  as  care, 
and  rest,  and  renovation,''  spoke  the  doctor  in  his  calm  way, 

"Nevermind.  You  take  a  physician  to  him,  and  let  him 
attend  him  with  you,  and  don't  spare  expense.  In  all  my  life 
I  never  saw  anybody  want  patching  up  so  much  as  he  wanta 
it." 

The  Squire  shook  hands  with  him,  and  went  on  round  th^ 


270  jerry's  gazktte. 

corner.     [  was  folic  wing,  when  the  doctor  tou<;hed  me  on  the 
6hoiik!(;r. 

"  He  has  a  good  heart,  for  all  his  hot  speech,"  whispeied 
he,  nodding  !;(jwards  the  Sqnire.  "In  talking  with  liini  this 
evening,  when  yon  iiiid  him  indulging  hopesofJjhiir's recovery, 
aoiH  encourage  them :  rather  lead  him,  if  possible,  to  look  on 
the  other  side  of  the  qnestion." 

The  sni-geon  was  ofP  before  I  recovered  my  surprise.  lint 
it  was  now  my  turn  to  run  after  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  he  will  not  get  well,  sir  ? '' 

"I  do  not  know  it;  the  sick  and  the  well  are  alike  in  the 
hands  of  God  ;  but  I  think  it  scarcely  possil)le  that  he  can," 
was  the  answer;  and  the  voice  had  a  solemn  tone,  the  face  a 
solemn  aspect,  in  the  street's  uncertain  light.  "  And  I  would 
prepare  friends  always  to  meet  the  worst  when  in  my  power." 

"Now  then,  Johnny!  You  were  going  to  take  the  wrong 
turning,  were  you,  sir  !  Let  me  tell  you,  you  might  get  lost 
in  London  before  knowing  it." 

The  Squire  had  come  back  to  the  corner  of  the  street,  look- 
ing for  me.  I  walked  on  by  his  side  in  silence,  feeling  half 
dazed,  the  hopeless  words  playing  pranks  in  my  brain. 

"  Johnny,  I  wonder  where  we  can  find  a  telegraph  oflice  % 
I  shall  telegraph  to  your  mother  to  send  up  Ilannali  to-morrow. 
Hannah  knows  what  the  sick  need:  and  that  poor  thing  with 
her  children  ouglit  not  to  be  left  alone." 

But  as  to  giving  any  hint  to  the  Squire  of  the  state  of  affairs, 
I  should  like  the  doctor  to  have  tried  at  it  himself.  Before  I 
had  finished  the  first  syllable,  he  attacked  me  as  if  I  had  been 
a  tiger;  demanding  whether  those  were  myideasof  Christian- 
ity, and  if  I  supposed  there'd  be  any  justice  in  a  man's  dying 
because  he  had  got  into  Jerry's  Gazette. 

In  the  morning  the  Squire  went  on  an  expedition  to  Gavitj's 
office  in  the  city.  It  was  a  dull  ])lace  of  two  rooms,  and  a  man 
to  answer  people.  "We  had  not  been  a  miinite  there  when  the 
Squire  began  to  explode,  going  on  like  anything  at  the  mac 
for  Baying  Mr.  Gavity  was  engaged  and  could  not  be  seen 


JEKRY  S    GAZETTE.  271 

The  Squire  deinaiided  if  he  thought  we  were  creditors,  that 
he  shouki  deny  Gavity. 

What  with  liis  looks  and  his  insistance,  and  his  promise  to 
bring  in  Sir  Richard  Mayne,  he  got  to  see  Gavity.     We  went 
into  a  good  room  with  a  soft  red  carpet  and  marble-topped  desk 
in  it.     Mr.  Gavity  politely  motioned  to  chairs  before  the  blaz 
iu«:  fire,  and  I  sat  down. 

Kot  the  Squire.  Out  it  all  came.  lie  walked  about  the 
room,  just  as  he  walked  at  home  when  he  was  in  a  way,  and 
said  all  kinds  of  things  ;  wanting  to  know  who  had  ruined 
Pyefinch  Blair,  and  what  Jerry's  Gazette  meant.  Gavity 
seemed  to  be  used  to  explosions  :  he  took  it  so  coolly. 

Y/hen  the  Squire  calmed  down,  he  nearly  grew  to  see  things 
in  Gavity's  own  light — namely,  that  Gavity  had  not  been  to 
bhime.  To  say  the  truth,  I  could  not  understand  that  he  had. 
Except  in  selling  them  up.  And  Gavity  said  if  he  had  not 
done  it,  the  landloi'd  would. 

Sr;  nothing  was  left  for  the  Squire  to  vent  his  wrath  on  but 
Jerry's  Gazette.  lie  no  more  understood  what  Jerry's  Gazette 
really  was,  or  whether  it  was  a  good  or  bad  thing  in  itself,  than 
he  understood  the  construction  of  the  planet  Jupiter.  It's 
well  Dwarf  Giles  was  not  present.  The  day  before  we  came 
to  London,  he  overheard  Giles  swearing  in  a  passion,  and  the 
Squire  had  pounced  upon  him  with  an  indignant  inquiry  if  he 
thought  swearing  was  the  way  to  get  to  Heaven.  W'hat  he 
said  about  Jerry's  Gazette  caused  Gavity's  eyes  togj-ow  round 
with  wonder. 

"  Lord  love  ye  !  "  said  Gavity,  "  Jerry's  Gazette  a  thing  that 
wants  putting  down  !  Wliy,  it  is  the  blessedest  of  institutions 
to  us  City  men.  It  is  a  pul)lic  Benefactor.  The  commercial 
world  has  had  no  boon  like  it.  Did  you  know  the  service  it 
does,  you'd  sing  its  praises,  sir,  instead  of  abusing  it." 

"] low  dare  you  tell  me  so  to  my  face?"  demanded  the 
Squire. 

"  Jerry's  Gazette's  like  a  mine  of  gold,  sir.  It  is  making 
its  fortune.     A  fine  one,  too." 


2T2  jerky's  gazette. 

"7  shouldn't  like  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  mv  neij'libonre'' 
tears,  and  hlood,  and  homes,  and  hearths,"  was  the  -wrathful 
answer,  "If  PyeHnt^h  Bhiir  dies  in  this  illness,  will  Jerry's 
Gazette  settle  a  pension  from  its  riches  on  his  widow  and 
chil(h-en  ?     Answer  me  that,  Mr,  Gavity." 

Mr,  Gavity,  to  judge  by  his  looks,  thought  the  question 
nearly  as  unreasonable  as  he  thought  the  Squire.  He  wanted 
to  tell  of  the  vast  benefit  Jerry's  Gazette  had  proved  in  eertain 
cases  ;  but  the  Squire  stopped  his  eai's,  saying  Blair's  case  was 
enougli  for  him, 

"I  do  not  deny  that  the  Gazette  may  work  mischief  onco 
in  a  way,"  acknowledged  Mr,  Gavity,  "  It  is  but  a  solitary 
instance,  sir  ;  and  in  all  commercial  improvements  the  units 
nni&t  suffer  for  the  mass." 

No  good,  Tne  Squire  went  at  him  again,  hammer  and  tongs, 
and  at  last  dashed  away  without  saying  good  morning,  calling 
out  to  me  to  come  on,  and  stop  not  a  moment  longer  in  a  nest 
of  thieves  an.d  casuists. 

Difford's  Buildino-s  had  us  in  the  afternoon.  The  haby  was 
in  its  basket,  little  Joe  lay  asleep  before  the  fire,  the  doll 
against  his  cheek,  and  Mary  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  in  the 
back  room.     She  got  up  hastily  when  she  saw  us. 

"I  think  he  is  weaker,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  as  she  came 
through  the  door  aiul  pushed  it  to,  '•  There  is  a  look  on  his 
faLce  that  I  do  not  like." 

There  was  a  look  on  hers.  A  wan,  liaggard,  patiently  hope- 
less look,  that  seemed  to  say  she  could  struo:o:le  no  lon<rer.  It 
was  not  natnial ;  neitlier  was  the  cabn,  dead  tone. 

"  Stay  here  a  bit,  my  dear,  and  rest  yourself,"  said  the 
Squire  to  her.     "  I'll  go  in  and  sit  with  him." 

There  could  be  no  mistake  now.  Doath  was  in  everv  line 
of  his  face.  His  head  was  a  little  raised  on  the  pillow;  and 
the  liollow  eyes  tried  to  smile  a  greeting.  The  S<|uire  waa 
gjod  for  a  great  deal,  but  not  for  making  believe  with  that 
sight  before  him.     He  broke  down  wi:h  a  great  sob. 

"Don't  grieve   for  me,"  murmured    poor  Blair.      "Hard 


jerry's  gazette.  273 

though  if  seems  to  ]eave  her,  I  have  learnt  to  say,  '  God's  will 
be  d(Mie.'  It  is  all  for  the  best — oh  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Wo 
must  throno-h  innch  tribnUitiou  enter  into  the  Kincrdoni," 

And  then  /broke  down,  and  hid  my  face  on  the  connter- 
pane.  Poor  old  Blair!  And  we  boys  had  called  him  Baked 
Pie! 

I  went  to  Paddinffton  station  to  meet  the  train.  Hannah 
was  in  it,  and  came  bursting  ont  npon  me  with  a  shriek  tliat 
might  have  been  heard  at  Oxford.  Upon  the  receipt  of  the 
telegram,  she  and  Mrs.  Todhetley  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  bad  been  run  over,  and  was  lying  in  some  hospital  with 
my  legs  off.  That  was  through  the  Squire's  wording  of  the 
message;  he  would  not  let  me  write  it.  "Send  Hannah  to 
London  to-morrow  by  mid-day  train,  to  nurse  somebody  that's 
in  danger." 

Blair  lingered  three  days  yet  before  he  died,  sensilde  to  the 
last,  and  quite  happy.  Not  a  care  or  anxiety  on  his  mind 
about  what  had  so  troubled  him  all  along — the  wife  and 
children. 

"  Throntrh  God's  mercy  ;  He  knows  how  to  soothe  the  death- 
bed,"'  said  ]\[r.  Lockett. 

Whether  Marv  would  liave  to  2:0  home  to  Wales  with  her 
babies,  or  stay  and  do  what  she  could  for  them  in  London,  de- 
pending on  the  wool-work,  the  clergyman  said  he  did  not  know, 
wlien  talking  to  ns  at  the  hotel,  lie  sujtposed  it  must  be  one 
of  the  two. 

"AVe'll  have  them  down  at  the  Manor,  and  fatten  'em  up 
a  bit,  Johnny,"  spoke  the  Scpdre,  a  rueful  look  on  his  good 
old  face.  "Mercy  light  upon  us! — and  all  tbrongh  Jerry's 
Gazette ! " 

1  must  say  a  word  for  myself.  Jerry's  Gazette  (if  there  ia 
Buch  a  thing  still  iu  existence)  may  be,  as  Mr.  Gavity  expressed 
it  to  us  then,  the  '•  blessedest  of  institutions  to  him  and  com- 
mercial meiu"     I  don't  wish  to  deny  it,  and  I  could  not  if  I 

wished  ;  for  except  in  this  one  instance  (which  may  have  beeo 
12* 


274  .TERRA    GAZET'lTS. 

an  exceptional  case,  as  Gavity  insisted)  I  know  nothing  of  it 
or  its  working.  Bnt  1  declare  on  my  hononr  I  liave  told 
nolliiiiij:  but  the  trnth  in  re<i:ard  to  what  it  did  for  tlie  school- 
master.  Pyefiuch  Blair. 


^^^m*. 


XIll. 


SOPHIE  CHALK. 

K  ^W\\l\i,  horses  went  spanking  along  the  frosty  road,  the 
r43#L  Squire  driving,  his  red  comforter  wi-aj)ped  round 
H^'^4  his  neck.  Mrs.  Todhetley  sat  beside  him  ;  Tod  and  I 
behind.  It  was  one  of  the  jolliest  days  tliat  early 
January  ever  gave  us  ;  dark  blue  sky,  and  icicles  on  the  trees : 
a  day  to  tempt  people  out.  Mrs.  Todhetley,  getting  to  her 
work  after  breakfast,  said  it  was  a  shame  to  stay  indoors :  and 
it  was  hastily  decided  to  drive  over  to  the  Whitneys'  place  and 
Bee  them.     So  the  large  phaeton  was  brought  round. 

1  had  not  expected  to  go.  AVhen  there  was  a  probability  of 
their  staving:  anywhere  sufficiently  long  for  the  horses  to  be 
put  up,  Giles  was  generally  taken  :  the  Stpaire  did  not  like  to 
give  trou]>le  to  other  people's  servants.  It  would  not  matter 
at  the  Whitneys' :  they  had  a  host  of  them. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  care  about  going,"  said  Tod,  as  we 
stood  outside,  waiting  for  the  others,  Giles  at  the  horses'  heads. 

"  Not  care,  Tod  !     Anna's  at  home." 

He  flicked  his  glove  at  my  face  for  the  impudence.  "We 
laughed  at  him  about  Anna  AYliitney  sometimes.  They  were 
great  friends.  The  Squire,  hearing  some  nonsense  one  day, 
took  it  seriously,  and  told  Tod  it  would  be  time  enough  for 
him  to  o^et  thinkino;  about  sweethearts  when  he  was  out  of 
leadinsr-strincrs.     Which  of  coui-se  Tod  did  not  like. 

It  was  a  long  drive  ;  I  can  tell  you  that.  And  as  we  turned 
in  at  the  wide  gi-avel  sweep  that  led  up  to  the  house,  wc  saw 
their  family  coach  being  bj-ought  round  with  some  luggage  on 


276  SOPHIE    CHALK. 

It,  the  p(X-tilion  in  his  undress  jacket,  just  laced  on  the  seams 
with  crimson.     Tlie  Whitne3-s  never  drove  from  the  box. 

"Whitney  Ilall  was  a  \ou'^  red-bi-ick  house  with  a  good  many 
windows  and  wide  (^ircuhir  steps  leading  to  the  door,  its  park 
and  irroinid^  hini'' around  it.  Anna  came  rnnnin<»;  to  meet  ua 
as  we  went  in,  drcsst'd  for  a  journey.  She  was  seventeen  ; 
very  fair;  wirli  a  i;-entle  face,  and  smooth,  briglit,  dark  aid)urn 
hair;  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  you  could  see  on  a  sunshiny 
day.  Tod  was  the  first  to  shake  liands  with  her,  and  I  saw 
her  (;lieeks  blush  crimson  as  Sir  John's  state  liveries. 

"  You  are  going  out.  iny  dear,"  said  Mrs  Todhetley 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  the  tears  rising  in  her  blue  eyes, 
which  were  as  blue  as  the  dark  blue  sky.  "  We  have  had  bad 
news.     AYilliam " 

The  dining-room  door  across  the  hall  opened,  and  a  lot  of 
them  came  forth.  Lady  Whitney  in  a  plaid  shawl  and  the 
strings  of  her  bonnet  untied  ;  Miss  AV^hitney  (Helen),  Harry, 
and  some  of  the  young  ones  behind.  Anna's  quiet  voice  was 
drowned,  for  they  all  began  to  tell  of  it  together. 

Sir  John  and  William  were  stavina;  at  some  friend's  house 
at  Ombersley.  Lady  Whitney  thought  they  would  have  been 
home  at  this  day:  instead  of  which  the  mf)rning's  post  had 
brought  a  letter  to  say  that  an  accident  had  occurred  to  Wil- 
liam in  hunting  ;  some  muff  who  couldn't  ride  had  gone  swerv- 
ing right  against  Bill's  horse,  and  he  was  thrown.  Except 
that  Bill  was  insensible,  nothing  further  of  the  damage  could 
be  gathered  from  the  letter ;  for  Sir  John,  if  put  out,  could 
write  no  more  intellio'iblv  than  the  S(pnre.  The  chief  of  what 
he  said  was — that  they  were  to  come  off  at  once. 

"  We  are  going,  of  course  ;  1  with  the  two  girls  and  Harry; 
tlie  carriage  is  waiting  to  take  us  to  the  station,"  said  poor 
Lady  Whitney,  her  l)onnet  pushed  off  till  it  hung  by  one  ear. 
"  But  I  do  wish  John  had  explained  fui-ther  :  it  is  snch 
suspense.  We  don't  think  it  can  be  extremely  serious,  or 
there;  would  have  been  a  telcii-ram.  I'm  sure  I  have  shivered 
at  every  ring  that  has  come  to  the  door  this  morning.*' 


SOPHIE    CHALK.  277 

"  And  tlie  post  was  never  in,  as  usual,  until  nearly  ten  o'clock," 
complained  Harry.     "  I  wonder  my  father  puts  up  with  it." 

"  And  the  worst  is  that  we  had  a  visitor  coming  to-day,'' 
added  Helen,  "  Mamma  would  have  telegraphed  to  London 
fo»*  her  not  to  start,  but  ihere  was  not  time.    It's  Sophie  Chalk." 

"  Who  is  Sophie  Chalk?  "  asked  Tod. 

Helen  told  us,  while  Ladj'  \Yhitney  was  finding  places  ii,r 
everybody  at  the  table.  They  had  been  taking  luncheon  in  a 
scrambling  fashion  ;  sitting  or  standing:  cold  beef,  mince-piesj 
and  cheese. 

"  Sophia  Chalk  was  a  schoolfellow  of  mine,"  said  Helen. 
'  It  was  an  old  promise — that  she  should  come  to  visit  us. 
Different  things  have  caused  it  to  be  put  off,  but  we  have  kept 
up  a  correspondence.  At  length  I  got  mamma  to  say  that  she 
might  come  as  soon  as  Christmas  was  turned  ;  and  to-day  waa 
fixed.     We  don't  know  what  on  earth  to  do." 

"Let  her  come  to  us  until  you  see  how  things  turn  out," 
cried  the  Squire,  in  his  hearty  good-nature,  as  he  cut  him- 
self a  slice  of  beef.  "  We  can  take  her  home  in  the  carriage : 
one  of  these  boys  can  ride  back  if  vou'll  lend  him  a  horse." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  said  he  took  the  same  words  out  of  her 
mouth.  The  Whitneys  were  too  fl.urried  to  pretend  to  make 
cereniony,  and  very  glad  to  accept  the  offer.  But  I  don't  think 
it  would  ever  have  been  made  had  the  Squire  and  madam 
known  what  was  to  come  of  it. 

"  There  will  be  her  luggage,"  observed  Anna  ;  who  usually 
remembered  things  for  everybody.  And  Lady  Whitney  put 
down  the  mince-pie  she  was  eating,  and  looked  round  in  con- 
sternation. 

"  It  must  come  to  us  by  rail  ;  we  will  send  for  it  from  the 
station,"  decided  Tod,  always  ready  at  a  pinch.  "  What  sort 
of  a  damsel  is  this  Sophie  Ciialk,  Anna?  " 

"  I  never  saw  her,"  re[)lied  Anna.     "  Yon  must  ask  Helen.'* 

Tod  whispered  something  to  Anna  that  made  her  smile  and 
blush.  "I'll  write  you  my  sentiments  about  her  to  Om- 
bersley,'  he  said  aloud.     "  Those  London  girls  are  something 


273  SOPHIE   CHALK. 

to  look  at."  And  1  knew  by  ToJ's  tune  that  he  was  prepared 
not  to  like  Miss  Sophie  Chalk. 

We  saw  thein  ont  to  the  carriai^e ;  the  Squire  putting  in  my 
lady ;  Tod,  Helen  and  Anna.  One  of  tlie  housemaids,  Lettice 
Lane,  was  running  in  and  out  wildly,  bringing  tliiugrf  to  tlie 
cairiage.  She  had  lived  with  us  once;  but  Hannah's  tenijter 
and  Letty's  propensity  to  gossip  did  not  get  on  together.  Mra. 
Todhetley,  when  they  had  driven  away,  asked  her  how  she 
liked  her  place — which  she  had  entered  at  Michaelmas.  Oil, 
pretty  well,  Lettice  answered  :  but  for  her  old  mother,  she 
fill  );iM  emigrate  to  Australia.  She  used  to  be  always  saying 
at  Dyke  Manor,  and  it  was  one  of  the  things  that  Hannah 
would  not  put  up  with,  telling  her  decent  girls  could  find 
work  at  home. 

Tod  went  off  next  ou  horseback :  and,  before  three,  we 
drove  to  the  station  to  meet  the  London  train.  The  Squire 
stayed  in  the  carriage,  sending  me  and  Mrs.  Todhetley  on  to 
the  platform. 

Two  passengers  got  out  at  the  small  station  ;  a  little  lady  in 
feathers,  and  a  butch.er  in  a  blue  frock,  who  had  a  calf  in  the 
open  van.  Mrs.  Todiietley  stepped  up  to  the  lady  and  in- 
quired whether  she  was  Miss  Chalk. 

"  I  am  Miss  Chalk.  Have  I  the  honour  of  speaking  to  Lady 
Whitnev  ? " 

While  matters  were  being  explained,  I  stood  (jbserving  her. 
A  very  small,  slight  person,  with  pretty  features  white  as 
ivory  ;  and  wide-open  light  blue  eyes,  that  were  too  close  to- 
gether, and  had  a  touch  of  boldness  on  their  surface.  It 
would  take  a  great  deal  to  daunt  their  owner,  if  I  could  read 
countenances :  and  that  I  was  always  doing  it  was  no  fault  of 
mine,  for  the.  instinct,  strong  and  ii'repressible,  lay  within  mo 
■ — as  old  DufTliam  once  said,  I  did  not  likelier  voice,  it  had 
notrueriugiu  it;  1  did  not  much  like  her  face.  But  the 
world  in  general  no  doubt  found  her  charming,  and  the 
Bquire  thought  her  so. 

She  sat  in  front  with  him,  a  carpet-bag  between  thein:  and 


SOPHIE    CHALK.  279 

r,  behind,  had  a  great  black  box  filling  np  my  legs.  She 
coiild  not  do  withoat  that  iniich  of  her  luggage :  the  rest 
might  come  bv  rail. 

"Johnny,"  whispered  Mrs.  Todhetley  to  me,  "I  am  afraid 
she  is  very  gi-and  and  fashionable.  I  don't  know  how  we  shall 
Diana^ce  to  amuse  her.     Do  vou  like  her?  " 

"Well— she  has  got  a  stunning  lot  of  hair/' 

"  IJeautif ul  hair,  Johnny  !  " 

With  the  hair  close  before  us,  I  could  but  say  so.  It  was 
brown ;  rather  darker  than  Anna  Whitney's,  but  with  a  red 
tinge  upon  it,  and  about  double  in  quantity.  Nature  or  oil 
was  giving  it  a  wonderful  gloss  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun 
as  she  turned  her  head  about,  laughing  and  talking  with  the 
Squire.  Her  dress  was  some  bright  purple  stuff  trimmed  with 
white  fur ;  her  hands,  lying  in  repose  on  her  lap,  had  yellow 
gauntlets  on. 

"  I'm  glad  I  ordered  a  duck  for  dinner,  in  addition  to  the 
boiled  veal  and  bacon,  Johnny,"  whispered  Mrs,  Todhetley 
again,  "The  fish  won't  be  much:  it  is  only  the  cold  cod 
done  np  in  parslej^  sauce." 

Tod,  at  home  long  before,  was  at  the  door  ready  for  us  when 
we  got  up.     I  saw  her  eyes  staring  at  him  in  the  dusk, 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  that  handed  me  out?  "  she  asked 
me  as  we  went  in, 

"  Mr,  Todhetley's  son," 

"I — think — I  have  heard  Helen  Whitney  talk  of  him,"  she 
Baid  in  reflection.     "  lie  will  be  very  rich,  will  he  not? " 

"  Pretty  well,  lie  will  have  what  his  father  iias  before  him, 
Miss  Chalk." 

Mrs.  Todhetley  offered  tea,  but  she  said  she  would  prefer  a 
glass  of  wine  ;  and  went  up  to  her  chamber  after  taking  it. 
Hannah  and  the  housemaid  were  putting  one  hastily  in  order 
for  her.  Sleepy  with  the  frosty  air,  I  was  nodding  over  the 
fire  in  the  drawing-room  when  the  rustle  of  silk  awoke  me. 

It  was  Miss  Chalk.  She  came  in  like  a  gleaming  fairy,  her 
dress  shining  in  the  tire-light ;  for  they  had  not  been  in  to 


280 


BOPIIIE    CHALK. 


li--lit  the  candles  It  had  a  I)ri<^dit  i^rccii-and-gold  tinge,  anj 
was  cut  very  low.  Did  she  think  we  had  a  party  ?--or  that 
dressing  for  dinner  was  t!iu  fasliion  in  our  plain  countrv  hous(! 
—as  it  might  have  been  at  a  didce's?  Her  shoulders  and  anna 
wore  white  as  snow  ;  she  wore  a  silver  necklace,  the  like  of 
which  I  never  saw  before,  silver  l)racelets.  and  a  thick  cord 
of  silver  twisting  in  and  out  of  the  complications  of  her  hair. 

"  I'm  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  your  people  to  take  me  in,"'  sho 
said,  standing  still  on  the  hearth-rug  in  her  beauty.  "They 
have  lighted  a  lire  in  my  i-oom  ;  it  is  so  comfortable.  I  do  like 
a  country  house.     At  Lady  Augustus  Diiford's ■" 

Her  head  went  round  at  the  opening  of  the  d(jor.  It  was 
Tod.  She  stepped  timidly  towai'ds  him,  like  a  school-girl: 
dressed  as  now,  she  looked  no  older  than  one.  Tod  mi<>-ht 
have  made  up  his  mind  not  to  like  her  ;  but  he  had  to  surren- 
der. Holding  out  her  hand  to  him,  he  could  but  yield  to  the 
attractive  vision,  and  his  heart  shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  bent 
them  npon  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having  passed  you  without  notice  , 
1  did  not  even  thank  you  for  lifting  me  down ;  but  I  was  fro- 
zen with  the  cold  drive,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Will  you 
forgive  me,  Mr.  Todhetley?" 

Forgive  her!  as  Tod  stood  there  with  her  hand  in  his,  he 
looked  inclined  to  eat  her.  Forgiveness  was  not  enough.  He 
led  lier  to  the  fire,  speaking  softly  some  words  of  gallantry. 

''  Helen  \7hitney  has  often  talked  to  me  about  you,  Mr. 
Todhetley.  I  little  thought  I  should  ever  make  your  acquaint- 
ance ;  still  less,  be  staying  in  your  father's  house." 

"  And  I  as  little  di-eamt  of  the  good  fortune  that  was  in 
Btore  for  me,"  answered  Tod. 

He  was  a  tall,  line  voung  fellow  then,  risins;  twenty,  looking 
older  than  his  age;  she  (as  she  looked  to-night)  a  delicate, 
•beautiful  fairy,  of  any  teens  fancy  might  please  to  picture. 
As  Tod  stood  over  her,  his  manner  took  a  gentle  air,  his  eyea 
a  shy  light— quite  entirely  unusual  with  him.  She  did  not 
look  up,  save  by  a  modest  glance  now  and  again,  dropping 


SOPHIE   ClIALK.  281 

her  eyes  when  tliej  met  his  own.     lie  had  the  chance  to  take 
out  his  fill  of  gazing,  and  nsed  it. 


Tod  was  canght.  From  that  very  first  night  <"nat  liis  eje3 
foil  on  Sophie  Chalk,  his  heart  went  out  to  her.  A  una  Whit- 
ney !  What  child's  play  had  the  joking  about  her  been  to  this ! 
Anna  might  ha%'e  been  his  sister,  for  all  the  regard  he  had  for 
her  of  a  certain  sort ;  and  he  knew  it  now. 

A  looker-on  sees  more  than  a  player,  and  I  did  not  like  one 
thing — she  drew  him  on  to  love  her.  If  ever  a  girl  spread  a 
net  to  entangle  a  man's  un'''.onscious  feet,  tliat  girl  was  bophie 
Chalk.  She  went  about  it  artistically,  too ;  in  the  sweetest, 
most  natural  way  imaginable  ;  and  Tod  did  not  see  or  suspect 
mortal  atom  of  it. 

No  fellow  in  a  similar  case  ever  does.     If  their  heart's  not 
engaged,  their  vanity  is  ;  and  it  blinds  them  utterly.     I  said  a 
word  or  two  to  him,  and  nearly  got  knocked  over  for  my  pains 
At  the  fortniirht's  end — and  she  was  with  us  nearlv  that  leno-th 
of  time — Tod's  heart  had  made  its  choice  f(^r  weal  or  iox  woe. 

She  took  care  that  it  should  be  so :  slie  did,  though  he  cut 
my  head  off  now  for  saying  it.  You  shall  judge.  On  that 
first  nio;ht  when  she  came  down  in  her  n-leamiufj;  silk,  with  the 
silver  on  her  neck  and  hair,  she  beiian.  In  the  drawincr-room 
after  dinner,  she  sat  by  him  on  the  sofa,  talking  in  a  low 
voice,  her  face  turned  to  him,  lifting  her  eyes  and  dropping 
them  again.  My  belief  is,  she  uiust  have  been  to  a  school 
where  they  taught  eye-play.  Tod  thought  it  wjis  sweet,  natu- 
ral, modest  shyness.  I  thought  it  was  all  artistic.  Mrs.  Tod- 
lietley  was  called  from  the  room  on  domestic  matters ;  the 
Squire,  gone  to  sleep  in  his  dinner-chair,  had  not  come  in. 
After  tea  when  all  were  present,  she  went  to  the  piano,  which 
nobody  ever  opened  but  me,  and  played  and  sang,  keeping 
Tod  by  her  side  to  turn  the  music,  and  to  talk  to  her  at  avail- 
able moments.  In  point  of  execution,  her  singing  was  perfect, 
but  the  voice  was  a  rather   harsh    one — not  a  note  of   real 


2.^2  SOPHIE    CHALK. 

nielodv  ill  it.  After  breakfast  the  next  mornino:,  wlit'ii  we 
were  away  together,  she  came  to  us  in  lier  jaunty  liat,  all 
feathers,  and  jjurple  dress  with  its  white  fur.  She  hired  him 
off  to  show  her  the  dyke  and  goodness  knows  what  else,  leaving 
Lena,  who  had  come  out  with  her,  to  be  taken  home  by  me. 
In  the  aftei-noon  Tod  di-ove  her  out  in  tlie  pony-chaise  ;  they 
had  settled  the  drive  between  them  down  by  the  dyke,  and  I 
know  she  had  contrived  for  it,  iust  as  surelv  as  thouirh  I  had 
been  behind  the  hedge  listening.  1  don"t  say  Tod  was  loth  ;  it 
was  quite  the  other  thing  from  the  first.  Tliev  took  a  two- 
hours'  drive,  coming  home  at  dusk ;  and  then  she  laughed  and 
talked  with  him  and  me  round  the  fire  until  it  was  time  to  eet 
ready  for  dinner.  TJiat  second  evening  she  came  down  in  a 
gauzy  sort  of  dress,  with  a  thin  white  body.  Mrs.  Todhetley 
thought  she  would  be  cold,  but  she  said  she  was  used  to  it. 
And  so  it  went  on;  never  were  they  apart  for  an  hour — no, 
nor  scarcely  for  a  minute  in  the  day. 

At  first  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Todhetley  saw  nothing.  Rather  were 
they  glad  Tod  should  be  so  attentive  to  a  stranger ;  for  special 
politeness  had  not  previously  been  amid  Tod's  virtues;  but 
they  could  but  notice  as  the  thing  went  on.  Mrs.  Todhetley 
grew  to  have  an  uneasy  look  in  her  eyes,  and  one  day  the 
Squire  spoke  out.  So])hie  Chalk  had  tied  a  pink  woollen  scarf 
ON  or  her  head  to  go  out  with  Tod  to  see  the  rabbits  fed:  he 
ran  back  for  something,  and  the  Squire  caught  his  arm. 

"  Don't  carry  that  on  too  far,  Joe.  You  don't  know  who 
the  gill  is." 

"  What  nonsense,  sir!  "  returned  Tod,  with  a  ready  laugh  ; 
but  he  turned  the  colour  of  a  peony. 

We  did  not  know  much  about  her,  except  that  she  seemed 
to  be  on  the  high  rojies,  talking  a  good  deal  of  great  people 
and  of  Lord  and  Ladv  Augustus  Difford,  with  wliom  she  had 
been  staying  for  two  months  before  Chi-istmas.  Her  home  in 
London,  she  said,  was  at  her  sistei-'s,  who  had  married  a 
wealthy  merchan!-,  and  lived  fashionaljly  in  Torriana  Square. 
Mjs.  Todhetley  did  not  like  to  appear  inquisitive,  and  would 


SOPHIE   CHALK.  283 

not  question.  Miss  Clialk  was  with  us  as  the  "Whitnevs'  friend, 
and  that  was  snlhcient. 

Bill  Whitney's  Jinrt  turned  out  to  he  something  complicated 
in  the  rihs.  Tiiere  was  no  danger  after  tlie  first  week,  and 
they  returned  home  during  tiie  second,  bringing  Bill  with 
them.  Helen  Whitney  wrote  the  same  day  for  Sophie  Chalk, 
and  she  said  that  her  mamma  would  be  happy  also  to  see  Tod 
and  me  for  a  short  while. 

We  went  over  in  the  large  phaeton.  Tod  driving,  with  Misa 
Chalk  beside  him  ;  I  and  Dwarf  Giles  behind.  She  had  thank- 
ed ]\[i's,  Todhetley  in  the  prettiest  manner  ;  she  told  the 
Squire,  as  he  handed  her  into  the  carriage,  that  she  should 
never  forget  his  kindness,  and  hoped  some  time  to  find  aa 
opportunity  of  repaj'ing  it. 

Such  kissing  between  Helen  and  Sophie  Chalk  !  I  thought 
they'd  never  leave  off.  Anna  stood  by  Tod,  while  he  looked 
on  :  a  hungry  light  in  his  eyes,  as  if  envying  Ilelen  the  kissea 
Blie  took.  lie  had  no  eyes  now  for  Amia.  Lady  Whitney 
asked  if  we  would  go  upstairs  to  William:  he  was  impatient 
to  see  us  both. 

'•  Halloa,  old  Johnnv  !  " 

lie  was  lying  on  his  l>ack  on  a  broad  flat  sofa,  looking  just 
as  well  as  ever  in  the  face.  They  had  given  him  up  the  best 
bed-room  and  dressing-room  because  he  was  ill :  nice  rooms, 
both — with  the  door  open  between. 

''  How  did  it  happen,  Bill  ?  " 

"  Goodness  knows  !  Some  fellow  rode  his  horse  pretty  near 
over  mine — don't  believe  he  had  ever  been  across  anything  but 
a  donkey  before.     "Where's  Tod?" 

"  Somewhere. — I  thought  he  was  close  behind  me." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  two  have  come.  It's  awfully  dull,  lying 
here  all  dav." 

'•  Are  you  obliged  to  lie?  " 

"  Garden  says  so." 

"  Do  yon  have  Carden  ?  " 

"  As  if  our  folks  would  be  satisfied  without  him  wlien  it's  • 


284  BOPHIE   CriALK. 

surgical  case,  and  one  of  danger!  he  was  telegraphed  for  on 
tiie  spot  and  got  over  in  loss  tiiaii  an  hour.  It  ha[)pened  :-.ear 
the  Ouiherslev  station.  lie  comes  here  every  other  dav,  and 
Featherston  between  whiles  as  liis  locmu  tenens." 

Tod  hurst  in  with  a  hiugh.  lie  had  been  talking  to  the 
girls  in  the  gallery  outside.  Leaving  him  and  13111  Whitney 
to  have  out  their  own  chaffer,  I  went  through  the  door  to  the 
other  room — the  fire  there  was  the  largest.  "  How  do  you 
do,  sir?" 

Somebody  in  a  neat  brown  gown  and  close  white  cap,  sew- 
ing at  a  table  behind  the  door,  had  got  up  to  say  this  with  a 
curtesy,  Where  had  I  seen  her? — a  woman  of  three  or  four 
and  thii  ty,  with  a  delicate,  meek  face,  and  subdued  expression, 
She  saw  the  puzzle. 

'•  1  am  Harry  Lease's  widow,  sir.  lie  was  pointsman  at 
South  Crahl)." 

Why,  yes,  to  ha  sure  !  And  she  was  not  much  altered  either. 
But  it  was  a  go.)d  while  now  since  he  died,  and  she  and  the 
children  had  moved  away  at  the  time.  I  shook  hands:  the 
sight  of  her  brought  poor  Harry  Lease  to  my  mind — and  many 
other  things. 

"Are  vou  livino- here?" 

"  1  have  been  nursing  young  Mr.  AVhitney,  sir.  Mr.  Garden 
Bent  me  over  from  Worcester  to  the  place  where  he  was  lying  ; 
and  my  lady  thought  I  might  as  well  come  on  here  with  them 
loi-  a  bit,  though  he  don't  want  more  done  for  him  now  than 
a  sei'vant  could  do.     "What  a  deal  you  have  grown,  sir!" 

"Havel?  You  should  see  J(jseph  Tod  hetley.  You  knew 
me,  though,  Mrs.  Lease  ?  " 

"  I  remembered  vour  voice,  sir.  Besides,  I  heard  Miss  Anna 
say  that  you  were  (;omi]ig  here." 

Asking  after  Polly,  she  gave  me  the  family  liistory  since 
Lease's  death.  Fii-st  (  f  all,  after  moving  to  her  mother's  at 
Worcester,  she  tried  to  get  a  living  at  nud<ing  gloves.  Her 
two  youngest  children  caught  some  disorder,  and  died;  and 
then  she  took  to  go  out  nursing.     In  that  she  succeeded  so 


BOPIITE    CHALK.  285 

well — for  it  seemed  to  be  her  vocation,  she  said- — as  to  he 
brought  under  the  nc^tice  of  some  of  the  medical  gentle  iicn 
of  the  town.  The}'  gave  her  plenty  to  do,  and  she  earned  an 
excellent  living,  Pollj  and  the  other  two  being  cared  for  by 
the  i):randni()ther. 

"  After  the  scuffle,  and  toil,  and   sorrow  of  tlie  old   davs, 

7  7  •^        - 

nursing  seems  like  a  holiday  for  me.  Master  Ludlow,"  she  c(ji;- 
eluded  ;  "and  I  am  at  home  with  the  children  for  a  day  or 
two  as  often  as  1  can  be." 

"Johnny!" 

The  call  was  Bill  AVhitnev's,  and  I  went  into  the  other 
room.  Helen  was  there,  but  not  Tod.  She  and  Bill  were 
disjiuting. 

"  I  tell  you,  "William,  I  shall  bring  her  in.  She  has  asked 
to  come.     You  can't  think  how  nice  she  is." 

"  And  I  tell  you,  Helen,  that  I  won't  have  her  brought  in. 
What  do  I  want  with  your  Sophie  Chalks?  " 

"  It  will  be  your  loss." 

"  So  be  it !    I  can't  do  with  strange  girls  here." 

"  You  will  see  that." 

'•  Now  look  here,  Helen — /  n'ovut  have  it.  To-morrow  is 
Mr.  Garden's  day  for  coming,  and  I'll  tell  him  that  I  can't  be 
left  in  peace.     He  will  soon  give  you  a  word  of  a  sort." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  are  so  serious  as  that,  let  it  drop,"  returned 
Helen,  with  good-humonr.  "  I  oidy  thought  to  give  you 
pleasure — and  Sophie  Chalk  did  ask  to  come  in." 

"AVho  is  this  Sophie  Chalk?  That's  about  the  nineteenth 
time  I  have  asked  it." 

"  The  sweetest  s^irl  in  the  world." 

"  Let  that  go.     Who  is  she  % " 

"  I  went  to  school  with  her  at  ]\Iiss  Lakon's.  She  nsed  tc 
do  my  French  for  me,  and  touch  up  my  drawings.  We  vowed 
a  lasting  friendship,  and  I  am  not  going  to  forget  it.  Every- 
body loves  her.  Lord  and  Lady  Augustus  Difford  have  just 
had  her  staying  with  them  for  two  months." 

"  Good  souls  ! "  cried  Bill,  satirically 


286  SOPHIE  CHALK. 

"  Slie  Is  the  loveliest  fairy  in  the  world,  and  dresses  like  an 
angel.     Will  you  see  her  now,  AVilliam  ?  " 

"No." 

Helen  went  off  with  a  flounce.  Bill  was  half  laughing, 
lialf  peevish  over  it.     The  confinement  made  him  fretful. 

"  As  if  I'd  let  them  bring  a  parcel  of  girls  in  to  bother  mel 
You  ye  had  her  for  these  past  three  weeks,  I  hear,  Johnny.* 

"  Pretty  near  it." 

"  Do  you  like  her?  " 

«  Tod  does." 

"  AVhat  sort  of  a  creature  is  the  syren  ? " 

"  She'd  fascinate  the  hair  off  your  head,  Bill ;  give  lier  the 
chance." 

"  Then  I'll  be  shot  if  she  shall  ^et  the  chance  as  far  aa 
mine  goes!  Lease!" — raising  his  voice — '"  keep  all  strange 
ladies  out  here.  If  they  attempt  to  enter,  tell  them  we've 
got  rats." 

"  Yerj  well,  sir." 

Other  visitors  were  staying  in  the  house.  A  Miss  Deveen, 
and  her  companion  Miss  Cattledon.  AVe  saw  them  first  at 
diimer.  Miss  Deveen  sat  by  Sir  John — an  ancient  lady, 
active  and  upright,  with  a  keen,  pleasant  face  and  white  hair. 
She  had  on  a  shirt-front  of  worked  muslin,  with  three  emerald 
Btuds  in  it  that  glittered  more  than  diamonds.  They  looked 
beautiful.  After  dinner,  when  those  four  old  ones  began 
whist,  and  we  were  at  the  other  end  of  the  drawing-room  in  a 
group,  somebody  spoke  of  the  studs. 

"  They  are  Jiothing  compared  to  some  of  her  jewellery," 
said  Helen  Whitney.  "She  has  a  Avhole  set  of  diamonds, 
most  beautiful !    I  hardly  know  what  they  are  worth." 

"But  those  emeralds  which  she  has  on  to-niirht  must  be  of 
value,"  cried  Sophie  Chalk.     "  See  how  they  sparkle  !  " 

It  made  us  all  turn.  As  Miss  Deveen  stii-red  with  the 
movement  of  throwing  down  her  cards,  the  rays  fi-om  the 
wax-lights  shone  on  the  emeralds,  bringing  oat  the  purcsl 
green  ever  imagined  by  a  painter. 


SOPHIE   CHALK,  2^7 

"  1  ihould  like  to  steal  them,"  said  Sophie  Chalk ;  "  they'd 
look  well  on  me." 

It  made  us  laugh.  Tod  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  a  strange 
love  lying  in  their  depths.  Anna  Whitney,  kneeling  on  tho 
ground  behind  me,  could  see  it. 

"I  would  rather  steal  a  set  of  pink  topaz  studs  that  she 
has,"  spoke  Helen ;  "  and  the  opals,  too.  Miss  Dcveen  ia 
gi'eat  in  studs." 

"  Why  in  studs  ?  " 

"  Because  she  always  wears  this  kind  of  white  body ;  it  is 
her  evening  dress,  with  satin  skirts.  I  know  she  has  a  differ- 
ent set  of  studs  for  every  day  in  the  week." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Sophie  Chalk. 

"  A  cousin  of  mamma's.  She  has  a  ffreat  deal  of  money, 
and  no  one  in  particular  to  leave  it  to.  Harry  says  he  hopes 
she'll  remember,  in  making  her  will,  that  he  is  only  a  poor 
younger  son." 

"Just  you  shut  up,  Helen,"  interrupted  Harry,  in  a  whis- 
per. "  I  believe  that  companion  has  got  ears  behind  her 
head." 

Miss  Cattledon  glanced  round  from  the  whist-table,  as 
thougii  the  ears  were  there  and  wide  open.  She  was  a  wiry 
lady  of  middle  age,  quite  forty,  with  a  screwed-in  waist  and 
creaking  stays,  a  piece  of  crimson  velvet  round  her  long  thin 
neck,  and  scantv  hair  as  li^ht  as  ofino-er. 

"  It  is  she  that  has  charge  of  the  jewel-box,"  spoke  Helen, 
when  we  thought  it  safe  to  begin  ao^ain.  "  Miss  Deveen  is  a 
"wondeiful  old  lady  for  sixty;  she  has  come  here  without  a 
maid  this  time,  and  diesses  herself.  I  don't  see  what  use  Miss 
Cattledon's  of  to  her,  unless  it  is  to  act  as  a  general  refria:er- 
ator,  but  she  gets  a  hundred  a  year  salary  and  some  of  the 
old  satins.  Sophie,  I'm  sure  she  heard  what  we  said — that 
we  should  like  to  steal  the  trinkets." 

"  Hope  she  relished  it !  "  quoth  Harrj.  "  She'll  put  thera 
nnder  double  lock  and  key,  for  fear  we  should  break  iu.." 

It  was  all  jesting  nonsense.     Amid  the  subdued  laugh,  Tod 


288  BOPHIE    CHALK. 

bent  his  face  over  Sophie  Chalk,  his  hand  touching  the  laco 
on  her  sleeve.  She  had  on  hlue  to-night,  with  a  pearl  neck 
lace. 

"  Will  yon  sing  that  song  for  me.  Miss  Chalk  ?  " 

She  rose  and  took  his  arm.  Helen  jumped  up  and  arrested 
them  ei'e  they  reached  the  p'ano. 

*'  We  must  not  have  any  nnisic  just  now.  Papa  never  likes 
it   viien  thev  are  at  whist." 

"JIow  very  pureasonable  of  him!"  cried  Tod,  looking 
fiercely  at  Sir  John's  old  red  nose  and  steel  spectacles. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  agreed  Helen.  "  H  he  played  for  guinea 
stakes  instead  of  sixpenny,  he  could  not  be  niore  particular 
about  having  no  noise.  Let  us  go  into  the  study  :  \\'3  can  do 
as  we  like  there." 

We  all  trooped  off.  It  was  a  small  square  i-oom  with  a 
Bliabby  carpet  and  worn  horse-hair  chairs.  Helen  stirred  up 
the  fire  ;  and  Sophie  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  and  said  she'd 
tell  us  a  fairy  tale. 


We  had  been  there  just  a  week  when  it  came  out.  The 
week  was  good.  Long  walks  in  the  frosty  air;  a  huge  swing 
between  the  cedar  trees  :  ridiuii^  bv  turns  on  the  rouo;h  Welsh 
pony  for  fun;  bagatelle  indoors,  work,  music,  chatter;  one 
dinner  party,  and  a  suuill  dance.  Half  my  time  M'as  spent  in 
Bill's  I'oom.  Toil  seemed  to  find  but  little  leisure  to  come  up, 
or  for  anything  else,  exce[)t  Sophie  Chalk.  It  was  a  gone 
case  with  Tod  :  looking  on,  1  could  see  that ;  but  I  don't  think 
anybody  else  did,  except  Aima.  He  liked  Sophie  too  well  to 
r/.ake  it  conspicuous.  Harry  made  open  love  to  her;  Sir  John 
Baid  she  was  the  prettiest  little  lady  he  had  seen  for  many  a 
day.     I  daresay  Tod  told  iier  the  same  in  jnivate. 

And  she  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  That  she  kept 
To<l  at  her  side,  cpiietly  fascinating  hiui  always,  was  certain  ; 
but  her  liking  for  him  did  not  appear  real.  To  me  it  seemed 
tliat  she  was  acting  it.     "  I  can't  make  that  Sophie  Chalk  out 


SOPHIE    CHAXK.  289 

Tod,"  I  said  to  him  one  day  by  the  beeches :  "  she  seems  child- 
isiily  i^eniiiiie,  but  I  believe  she's  just  as  sliarp  as  a  needle.'' 
Tud  hiughed  idly,  and  told  me  I  was  the  simplest  muff  that 
ever  trod  in  shoe  leather.  She  was  no  rider,  and  somebody 
liad  to  walk  by  her  side  when  she  sat  on  the  Welsh  pony,  hold- 
ing her  on  at  all  the  turnings.  It  was  generally  Tod  :  she 
made  l)elieve  to  be  frightfully  timid  with  hhn. 

It  was  at  the  week's  end  the  loss  was  discovered :  Misa 
Deveen's  emerald  studs  were  ^owq.  You  never  heard  such  a 
commotion.  She,  the  owner,  took  it  quietly,  but  Miss  Cattle- 
dou  made  noise  enough  for  ten.  The  girls  were  talking  round 
the  study  fire  the  morning  after  the  dance,  and  1  was  writing 
a  note  at  the  table,  when  Lettice  Lane  came  in,  her  face  white 
as  death. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  young  ladies,  for  asking,  but  have  any 
of  you  seen  Miss  De%'een's  emerald  studs,  please  \  " 

They  turned  round  in  surjjrise. 

"  Miss  Deveen's  studs  !  "  exclaimed  Helen.  "  We  are  not 
likelv  to  have  seen  them,  Lettice.     AVhv  do  you  ask  ? " 

"  Because,  Miss  Helen,  they  are  gone — that  is.  Miss  Cattle- 
don  says  they  are.  But,  with  so  much  jewels  as  there  is  in 
that  case,  it  is  verv  easv  to  overlook  two  or  three  little  things." 

Why  Lettice  Lane  should  have  shaken  all  over  in  telling 
this,  was  an  unexplained  marvel.  Her  very  teeth  chattered. 
Anna  intpiired  ;  but  all  the  answer  given  by  the  girl  was,  that 
it  had  "  put  her  into  a  twitter."  Sophie  Chalk's  countenance 
was  full  of  compassion,  and  I  liked  her  for  it. 

"  Don't  let  it  trouble  you,  Lettice,"  she  kindly  said.  "  H  the 
Btuds  are  missing,  I  dare  say  they  will  be  found.  Just  before 
1  came  down  here  mv  sister  lost  a  brooch  from  her  dressinoj 
table.  The  whole  house  was  searched  for  it,  the  servants  were 
uncomfortable " 

"And  was  it  found,  miss?"  interrupted  Lettice,  too  eager 
to  let  her  finish. 

"  Of  course  it  was  found      Jewels  don't  get  hopelessly  lost 

in  gentlemen's  houses.     It  had  fallen  down  \  and,  caught  by 
13 


200  80PIIIK   CHALK. 

the  la<  e  of  the  toilette  drapery,  was  lying  hid  within   ita 
folds." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  miss ;  yes,  pei-haps  the  studs  have  fallen 
too,"  said  Lettice  Lane  as  she  went  out.  Helen  looked  after 
her  in  some  curiosity. 

"  Why  should  the  loss  trouble  het  ?  Lettice  has  nothing  to 
do  with  Miss  Deveen's  jewels." 

"  Look  here,  Helen,  I  wish  we  had  never  said  we  should 
like  to  steal  the  things,"  spoke  Sophie  Chalk.  "  It  was  all  jest, 
of  course,  but  this  would  not  be  a  nice  sequel  to  it." 

"  Why — yes — you  did  say  it,  some  of  you,"  cried  Amia, 
who,  till  then,  had  seemed  buried  in  thought;  and  her  face 
flushed. 

"  What  if  we  did?  "  retorted  Helen,  looking  at  her  in  some 
slight  surprise. 

Soon  after  this,  in  going  up  to  Bill's  room,  I  met  Lettice 
Lane.  Siie  was  running  down  stairs  with  a  plate,  and  looked 
whiter  than  ever. 

"  Are  the  studs  found,  Lettice  ? " 

<'No,sir." 

The  answer  was  short,  the  manner  scared.  Helen  had  won- 
dered why  the  loss  should  affect  her ;  and  so  did  L 

''Where's  the  use  of  your  being  put  out  over  it,  Lettice'* 
You  did  not  take  them." 

"No,  Master  Johnny,  I  did  not ;  but — but — "looking  all 
round  and  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  I  am  afraid  I 
know  who  did  ;  and  it  was  through  me.     I'm  a'most  mad." 

This  was  rather  mysterious.  She  gave  no  opjxtitunity  for 
moi-e,  but  ran  down  as  though  the  stairs  were  on  tire. 

I  went  on  to  Bill's  chamber,  and  found  Tod  and  Harry  with 
him  ;  they  wei'e  laughing  over  a  letter  fi-om  some  fellow  at 
Oxford.  Standing  at  the  window  close  by  the  inner  door, 
which  was  ajar.  I  heard  Lettice  Lane  go  into  the  dressing- 
room  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Lease  in  a  half  whisper. 

"I  can't  bear  this  an'  lonij^er,"  she  said.  "  H  vou  have 
token  those  studs,  for  heaven's  sake  put  them  back.    I'll  make 


eOPHfE    CHALK.  291 

if 

some  excuse — say  1  found  theni  under  the  carpet,  or  slipped 
under  the  drawers — anything— only  put  thcjin  back  !  " 

'•  I  don't  know  w'hat  you  mean,'    replied  Mrs.  Lease,  who 
always  spoke  as  tliongh  she  had  but  half  a  voice. 
"  Yes,  YOU  do.     You  have  o;ot  the  studs." 
By  the  pause  that  ensued,  Nurse  Lease  seemed  to  have  lost 
the  use  of  her  tongue.     Lettice  took  the  opportunity  to  put  it 
stronijer. 

"  If  you've  got  them  about  you,  give  them  into  my  hand  now, 
and  I'll  manage  the  rest.  Not  a  living  soul  shall  ever  know 
of  this  if  you  will.     Oh,  do  give  them  to  me !  " 

Mrs.  Lease  spoke  then.  "  If  you  say  this  again,  Lettice 
Lane,  I'll  tell  my  lady  all.  And  indeed  I  have  been  wanting 
to  tell  her  ever  since  I  heard  that  souiething  was  gone.  It 
was  for  your  sake  1  did  not." 

"  For  my  sake  !  "  shrieked  Lettice. 

"  Vrell,  and  it  was.  I'm  sure  I'd  not  like  to  sav  it  if  I 
could  help,  Lettice  Lane  ;  but  it  did  strike  me  that  you  might 
have  been  tempted  to — to — you  know." 

So  it  was  accusation  and  counter-accusation.  Wliich  of  the 
two  confessed  first  was  uncertain;  but  in  a  short  while  the 
whole  was  known  to  the  house,  and  to  Lady  Whitney. 

On  the  previous  night  the  upper  housemaid  was  in  bed 
with  some  temporary  illness,  and  it  fell  to  Lettice  Lane  to  put 
the  rooms  to  rights  after  the  ladies  had  dressed.  Instead  of 
calling  one  of  the  other  servants  she  asked  Mrs.  Lease  to  help 
her — which  must  have  been  for  nothing  but  to  gossip  with  the 
nurse,  as  Lady  Whitney  said.  On  Miss  Deveen's  dressing- 
ta])le  stood  her  case  of  jewels,  the  key  in  the  lock.  Lettice 
.ifted  the  lid.  On  the  top  tray  glittered  a  heap  of  ornaments, 
and  the  two  women  feasted  their  eyes  with  the  sight.  Nurse 
Lease  declared  that  she  never  put  "  a  finger's  end  "  on  a  single 
article.  Lettice  could  not  say  as  much.  Neither  (if  they 
were  to  be  believed)  had  (observed  the  green  studs ;  and  the 
upper  tray  was  7iot  lifted  to  see  what  was  underneath.  Miss 
Cattledon,  who  made  oue  at  the  uproar,  put  in  her  word  at 


292  SOPHIE   CHALK. 

this,  to  say  they  were  telling  a  falsehood,  and  her  face  liad 
enough  vinegar  in  it  to  pickle  a  sahnon.  Other  people  might 
like  Miss  Cattledon,  but  I  did  not.  She  was  in  a  silent  rage 
with  Miss  Deveen  for  having  chosen  to  keep  the  jewel-irasr 
diu'ing  their  stay  at  Whitney  Hall,  and  for  carelessly  leaving 
the  key  in  it.  Miss  Deveen  took  the  loss  calmly,  and  was  as 
cool  as  a  water-melon. 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  emerald  studs  were  in  the  upper 
tray  last  night ;  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  them,"  Miss 
Deveen  said,  as  if  bearing  out  the  assertion  of  the  two  women. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  madam,  they  were  there,"  stiffly  cor- 
rected Miss  Cattledon.  "  I  saw  them.  1  thono-ht  you  would 
put  them  on,  as  you  were  going  to  wear  your  green  satin  gown, 
and  asked  if  I  should  lay  them  out ;  but  you  told  me  you 
would  choose  for  yourself." 

Miss  Deveen  had  worn  diamonds  ;  we  noticed  their  lustre. 

"  I'm  sure  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  happened  !  "  said 
poor  Lady  Whitney,  looking  as  Hurried  as  a  scared  cow.  "  1 
dare  not  tell  Sir  John  ;  he  would  storm  the  windows  out  of 
their  frames.  Lease,  I  am  astonished  at  you.  How  could  you 
dare  open  the  box  ?  " 

"  I  never  did  open  it,  my  lady,"  was  the  answer.  "  ^V^len 
I  got  round  from  the  bed,  Lettice  was  standing  with  it  open 
before  her." 

"  I  don't  think  there  need  be  much  doubt  as  to  the  guilty 
party,"  struck  in  Miss  Cattledon  with  intense  acrimony,  a>  her 
eyes  went  swooping  down  upon  Lettice.  And  if  they  wei'e 
not  sly  and  crafty  eyes,  never  ^'on  trust  me  again. 

"  1  do  not  think  there  need  be  so  much  trouble,"  corrected 
Miss  Deveen.  "  It's  not  your  loss,  Cattledon — it  is  mine  :  and 
my  own  fault  too." 

But  Miss  Cattledon  would  not  take  the  hint.  She  stuck  to 
it  like  a  leech,  and  sifted  evidence  as  subtly  as  an  Old  Bailey 
lawyer.  Mrs.  Lease  carried  innocence  on  the  surface ;  no 
one  could  doul)t  it:  Lettice  might  have  been  taken  for  a  seven- 
years'  thief.     She  sobbed,  and  choked,  and  rambled  in  hei 


BOPiriE    CHALK.  293 

tale,  and  grew  as  confused  as  a  hiinteJ  hare,  contradicting 
herself  at  every  se3ond  word.  The  Australian  scheme  (though 
it  might  have  been  nothing  but  foolish  talk)  told  against  hei 
now. 

Things  grew  more  uncomfortable  as  the  dav  went  on,  the 
house  being  ransacked  from  head  to  foot.  Sophie  Chalk 
ci-ied.  She  was  not  rich,  she  said  to  me,  but  she'd  give  everj 
shilling  of  money  she  had  with  her  for  the  studs  to  be  found ; 
and  she  thought  it  was  very  wrong  to  accuse  Lettice,  when  so 
many  strangers  had  been  in  the  house.  I  liked  Sophie  better 
than  I  had  liked  her  yet:  she  looked  regularly  vexed. 

Sir  John  irot  to  know  of  it:  Miss  Cattledon  told  him.  lie 
did  not  storm  the  windows  out,  but  he  said  the  police  must 
come  in  to  see  Lettice  Lane.  Miss  Deveen,  hearing  of  this, 
went  straight  to  Sir  John,  and  assm-ed  him  that  if  he  took  any 
serious  steps  while  the  affair  was  so  doubtful,  she  would  quit 
his  house  on  the  instant,  and  never  put  foot  in  it  agaiu.  lie 
retorted  that  it  nmst  have  been  Lettice  Lane — common  sense 
and  Miss  Cattledon  could  not  be  mistaken — and  that  it  ought 
to  be  investiirafed. 

They  came  to  a  compromise.  Lettice  was  not  to  be  given 
hito  custody  at  present;  but  she  must  quit  the  Hall.  That, 
said  ]\Iiss  Deveen,  was  of  course  as  Sir  John  and  Lady  Whitney 
pleased.  To  tell  the  truth,  suspicion  did  seem  strong  against 
her. 

She  went  away  at  eventide.  One  of  the  men  was  charged 
to  drive  her  to  her  mother's,  about  five  miles  off.  I  and  Anna, 
hastening  home  from  our  walk — for  we  had  lost  the  others,  and 
tlie  stars  were  coming  out  in  the  cold  sky — saw  them  as  we 
passed  the  beeches.     Lettice's  face  was  swollen  with  crying. 

"  We  are  so  sorry  this  has  happened,  Lettice,"  Anna  gently 
said,  going  to  the  gig.  "I  do  iiojie  it  will  be  cleared  up  soon. 
Remember  one  thing — I  shall  think  well  of  you  until  it  is. 
/do  not  suspect  you." 

"  I  am  turned  out  like  a  criminal.  Miss  Anna,"  sobbed  the 
girl.     "  They  searched  me  to  the  skin ;  that  Miss  Cattledon 


294  BOPriTE    CHALK 

Standing  on  to  see  that  the  housekeeper  did  it  properly  ;  and 
they  have  scaj-ched  my  boxes.  The  only  one  to  speak  a  kind 
woid  to  ine  as  I  came  awav,  was  Miss  Deveen  herself.  It's 
a  dis<rrace  I  shall  never  sret  over." 

"  That's  rubbish,  Lettice,  you  know," — for  I  thought  I'd  put 
in  a  good  woi-d,  too.  "  You  will  soon  forget  it,  once  the  right 
fellow  is  pitched  ujion.     Good  luck  to  you,  Letti(;e." 

Anna  shook  hands  with  her,  and  the  man  drove  on.  Lettice 
Bobbing  aloud.  Not  hearing  Anna's  footsteps,  I  looked  round 
and  saw  she  had  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches,  though  it  \va3 
white  with  frost.     I  went  back. 

"  Don't  you  go  and  catch  cold,  Anna." 

"Johnny,  you  cannot  think  how  this  is  troubling  meP 

"Why  you — in  particular?" 

"  Well — for  one  thing  I  can't  believe  that  she  is  guilty.  1 
have  always  liked  Lettice." 

"  So  did  we  at  Dyke  Manor.  But  if  she  is  not  guilty,  who 
is?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Johnny,"  she  continued,  her  eyes  taking  a 
far-off,  thoughtful  look.  "What  I  cannot  help  thinking,  is 
this — though  I  feel  half  ashamed  to  say  it.  Several  visitors 
were  in  the  house  last  night ;  suppose  one  should  have  found 
her  way  into  the  room,  and  taken  them  ?  If  so,  how  cruel 
this  must  be  on  Lettice  Lane," 

"  Sophie  Chalk  suggested  the  same  thing  to  me  to-day.  But 
a  visitor  would  not  do  such  a  thing.  Fancy  a  lady  stealing 
jewels  !  " 

"  The  open  box  might  prove  a  strong  temptation.  People 
do  things  in  such  moments,  Johnny,  that  they  would  fly  from 
At  other  times." 

"  Sophie  said  that  too.     You  have  been  talking  together." 

"  I  have  not  exchangrd  a  word  with  Sophie  Chalk  on  the 
subject.     The  ideas  might  occur  naturally  to  any  of  us." 

I  did  not  think  it  at  all  likely  to  have  been  a  visitor.  How 
should  a  visitor  know  there  was  a  jewel-box  open  in  Miss. 
Deveen's  room  ?     The  chamber,  too,  was  an  inner  one,  aud 


BorniE  CHALK.  295 

therefore  not  liable  to  be  entered  accidentally.     To  get  lo  it 

you  had  to  go  through  Miss  Cattledon's. 

"  The  room  is  not  easy  of  access,  you  know,  Anna." 

"  N'ot  verv.     But  it  niio-ht  be  reached." 

"I  sav,  ai-e  you  sayinij  this  for  anv  reason  ?  " 

She  turned  round  and  looked  at  me  rather  sharply. 

''  Yes.     Because  I  do  not  believe  it  was  Lettice  Lane." 

"  Was  it  Miss  Cattledon  herself ,  Anna  ?     I  have  heard  ol 

Bucli  like  curious  things.     Her  eyes  took  a  greedy  look  to-dav 

when  they  rested  on  the  jewels." 

As  if  the  suofixestion  fri^-htened  her — and  I  hardly  know 

how  I  came  to  whisper  it — Anna  started  up,  and  ran  acrosa 

the  lawn  to  the  house,  uever  looking  back  or  stopping. 


XIV. 

AT  MISS  DEYEEN'S. 

^IIE  end  of  the  table  was  between  ns  as  we  stood  in  the 
dining-room  at  Dyke  Manor^I  and  Mrs.  Todiietley 
— and  on  it  hij  a  three-cornered  article  of  soft  gera- 
nium-coloured wool,  wliich  she  called  a  "  fichu."  i 
had  my  great-coat  on  my  arm  ready  for  travelling,  for  I  was 
going  up  to  London  on  a  visit  to  Miss  Deveen. 

It  was  Easter  now.  Soon  after  the  bi-eak-up  of  pleasure, 
caused  by  the  loss  of  the  emerald  studs  at  Whitney  Hall  in 
January,  the  party  had  dispersed.  Sophie  Chalk  retui-ned  to 
London;  Tod  and  I  came  home;  Miss  Deveen  was  going  tc 
Bath.  The  studs  had  not  been  ti'aced — had  never  been  heard 
of  since  ;  and  Lettice  Lane,  after  a  short  stay  in  disgrace  at  her 
mother's  cottage,  had  suddenly  disappeared.  Of  course  there 
were  not  wanting  people  to  afKrm  that  she  had  gone  off  to  her 
favourite  land  of  promise,  Australia,  carrying  the  studs  with 
her. 

The  Yv^hitneys  were  now  in  London.  They  did  not  go  in  for 
London  seasons;  in  fact,  Lady  Whitney  hardly  remeiuljcred 
to  have  had  a  season  in  London  at  all,  and  she  quite  dreaded 
this,  sayino;  she  should  feel  like  a  fish  out  of  water.  Sir  John 
occupied  a  bedroom  when  he  went  up  for  Parliament,  and 
dined  at  his  clul).  But  Helen  was  nineteen,  and  they  thought 
she  ought  to  be  presented  to  tlie  Queen.  So  Miss  Deveen  wag 
consulted  about  a  furnished  house  for  them,  and  she  and  Sir 
John  took  one  for  six  weeks  from  just  before  Easter.  They 
left  Wliitney  Hall  at  once  to  take  possession  ;  and  Bill  AVhit* 


AT  MISS  deveen's.  297 

nev  and  Tod,  who  gc^t  an  invitation,  joined  them  the  day  before 
Good  Friday. 

The  next  Tnesday  I  received  a  letter  from  Miss  Deveen. 
AVe  were  verv  srood  friends  at  AVhitney,  and  slie  had  l)een 
puh"te  enough  to  say  slie  should  be  glad  to  see  me  in  London. 
I  iies'er  expected  to  go,  for  three-parts  of  those  invitations  do 
not  comi  to  anything.  She  wrote  now  to  ask  me  to  go  up  ;  it 
Uiiglit  be  pleasant  for  me,  she  added,  as  Joseph  Todhetley  was 
Eta\iug  w^ith  the  Whitneys. 

It  is  of  no  use  oroino-  on  until  I  have  said  a  word  about  Tod. 
If  ever  a  fellow  was  hopelessly  in  love  with  a  girl,  he  was 
with  Sophie  Chalk.  I  don't  mean  hopeless  as  to  the  love,  but 
as  to  getting  out  of  it.  On  the  da}  that  we  were  quitting 
"Whitney  Hall — it  was  on  the  26th  of  January,  and  the  icicles 
were  clustering  on  the  tree-branches — they  had  taken  along 
walk  too-ether.  What  Tod  said  I  don't  know,  hut  I  think  he  let 
her  know  how  much  he  loved  lier,  and  asked  her  to  wait  until 
he  should  be  of  age  and  could  put  the  question — would  she  be 
his  wife?  "We  went  with  her  to  the  station,  and  the  way  Tod 
wrapped  her  up  in  the  railway  carriage  was  as  good  as  a  show 
(Pretty  little  Mrs.  Hughes,  wlu)  had  been  visiting  old  Feather- 
ston,  went  up  by  the  same  train  and  in  the  same  cai-riage.) 
They  corresponded  a  little,  she  and  Tod.  Nothing  particulai 
in  her  letters,  at  any  rate — iKJthing  but  what  the  world  might 
see,  or  tliat  she  might  have  written  to  Mrs.  Todhetley,  who  got 
one  fixnn  her  on  occasion — but  I  know  Tod  just  lived  on  those 
letters  and  her  remembrance;  he  could  not  hide  it  frtnn  me; 
and  1  saw  without  wishing  to  see  or  being  able  to  help  myself. 
V»''hy,  he  had  gone  up  to  London  now  in  one  sole  hope — that 
of  meeting  again  with  Miss  Clialk ! 

Mrs.  Todhetley  saw  it  too — had  seen  it  from  the  time  when 
S<»phie  Chalk  was  at  Dyke  Manor — and  it  grieved  and  worried 
her.  But  not  the  Squire :  he  no  more  supposed  Tod  was  go- 
ing to  take  up  seriously  with  Sophie  Clialk,  than  with  the 
pink-eyed  lady  exhil)ited  the  past  year  at  Pershore  Fair. 

"Well,  that's  all  of  explanation.     This  was  Wednesday  mom- 
13* 


298  AT    MISS    DEVEEN'g. 

ing,  and  tlie  Squire  was  going  to  drive  me  to  the  station  for 
the  London  train.  Mrs.  Todhetley  at  the  last  moment  was 
giving  me  charge  of  the  fichu,  which  she  had  made  for  Sophie 
(^halk's  sister. 

"  I  did  not  send  it  bj^  Joseph  ;  I  thought  it  was  well  not," 
Blie  observed,  as  she  began  to  pack  it  up  in  the  tissue  paper. 
"  Will  you  take  it  down  to  Mrs.  Smith  yourself,  Johnny,  and 
deliver  it  ? " 

"  All  right." 

"  I — you  know,  Johnny,  I  have  the  greatest  dislike  to  any 
thing  that  is  mean  or  underhanded,"  she  went  on,  dropping 
her  voice  a  little.  "  But  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  wi-ons:, 
under  the  circumstances,  if  I  ask  you  to  take  a  little  notice  of 
what  these  Smiths  ai'e.  I  don't  mean  in  the  way  of  being 
fashionable,  Johnny  ;  I  suppose  they  are  all  that ;  but  w^hether 
they  are  nice,  good  people.  Somehow  I  did  not  like  Miss 
Chalk,  with  all  her  fascinations,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  pretend 
I  did." 

'*  She  was  too  fascinating  for  ordinarv  folk,  2:ood  mother.'' 

"  Yes,  that  was  it.  She  seemed  to  put  the  fascinations  on. 
And,  Johnny,  though  we  were  to  hear  that  she  had  a  thou- 
sand a  year  to  her  foilune,  I  should  be  miserable  if  I  thouo;ht 
Joe  would  choose  her  for  his  wife." 

"  She  used  to  sa}'  she  was  poor." 

"  But  she  seemed  to  have  a  whole  list  of  lords  and  ladies  for 
her  friends,  so  I  conclude  she  and  her  connections  must  be 
people  of  note.  It  is  not  that,  Johnny — rich  or  poor — it  is 
that  I  don't  like  her  for  herself,  and  I  do  not  think  she  is  the 
one  to  make  Joe  hajipy.  She  never  spoke  openly  about  her 
friends,  vou  know,  or  about  herself.  At  any  ivite,  vou  take  dowu 
tliir-  '\ttle  parcel  to  Mrs.  Smith,  with  my  kind  compliments, 
and  then  vou'U  see  them  for  yourself.  And  in  judi^meiit  and 
observation  you  are  worth  fifty  of  Joe,  any  day." 

"  Not  in  eitlier  judgment  oi-  observation  ;  only  in  instinct." 

"  Aud  that's  for  yourself,"  she  added,  sl'pping  a  sovereign 
into  my  pocket.    *'  I  don't  know  how  much  Mr.  Todhetley  hai 


AT  :Nnss  DE Veen's.  299 

given  you.  Mind  you  spend  your  money  in  right  things, 
Johnny.  Bat  I  am  not  afraid  ;  I  could  trust  you  all  over  the 
world." 

Giles  put  my  portmanteau  in,  and  we  drove  oif.  The 
hedges  were  beginning  to  bud ;  the  fields  looked  green.  From 
observations  about  the  young  lambs,  and  a  broken  fence,  that 
he  went  into  a  passion  over,  the  Squire  suddenlj^  plunged  into 
Bomething  else. 

"  You  take  care  of  yourself,  sir,  in  London  !  Boys  get  into 
all  kinds  of  pitfalls  there,  if  they  don't  mind." 

"  But  I  do  not  call  myself  a  boy,  sir,  now." 

"  Not  call  yourself  a  boy ! "  retorted  the  Squire,  staring. 
"  I'd  like  to  know  what  else  you  are.  Tod's  a  boy,  sir,  and 
nothing  else,  though  he  does  count  twenty  yeai-s.  I  wonder 
what  the  world's  coming  to  ! "  he  added,  lashing  up  Bob  and 
Blister.  "  In  my  days,  youngsters  did  not  think  themselves 
men  before  they  had  done  growing." 

"  What  I  meaTit  was,  that  I  am  old  enough  to  take  care  of 
mvself.  Mrs.  Todhetlev  has  last  said  she  could  trust  me  all 
over  the  world." 

"Just  like  her  foolishness!  Take  care  vou  don't  iret  vour 
pockets  picked  :  there's  sure  to  be  a  thief  at  every  corner. 
And  don't  vou  i)i(;k  them  vourself,  Master  Johnnv.  I  knew 
a  young  fellow  once  who  went  up  to  London  with  ten  pounds 
in  his  pocket.  He  was  staying  at  the  Castle  and  Falcon  Hotel, 
near  the  place  where  the  mails  used  to  start  from — and  a  fine 
Bight  it  was  to  see  them  bowl  out,  one  after  another,  with  their 
lamps  lighted.  Well,  Johnny,  this  young  fellow  got  back 
again  in  four  days  by  one  of  these  very  mails,  every  shilling 
spent,  and  his  fare  down  not  paid.  You'd  not  think  that  was 
steady  old  Jacobson  ;  but  it  was." 

I  laughed.     The  Squire  looked  more  inclined  to  cry. 

"  Cleaned  out,  he  was  ;  not  a  rap  left !  Money  melts  in 
London— that's  a  fact — and  it  is  very  necessary  to  be  cautious. 
His  went  in  seeing  the  shows  ;  so  he  told  his  father.  Don't 
you  go  in  for  too  many  of  them,  Johnny,  or  you  may  find  your- 


goo  AT    MISS   DEVEEN's. 

self  witliont  funds  to  bring  you  home,  and  railways  don't  give 
trust.  You  might  go  to  the  Tower,  now  ;  and  St.  Paul's  ;  and 
the  British  Muse  am  ;  they  are  steady  places,  I'd  not  advise 
a  theatre,  unless  it's  just  once — some  good,  respectable  play  ; 
and  mind  you  go  home  straight  after  it.  Some  young  men 
slink  off  to  siugiug-shops  now,  they  say,  but  I  am  sure  such 
pla:ies  can  bring  no  good." 

"Being  with  Miss  Deveen,  sir,  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  have 
the  opportunity  of  getting  into  much  harm." 

"  Well,  it  is  right  in  me  to  caution  you,  Johnny.  LondoB 
is  a  dreadful  place,  full  of  sharpei's  and  bad  j)eople.  It  used 
to  be  in  the  old  days,  and  I  don't  suppose  it  has  improved  in 
these.  You  have  no  father,  Johnny,  and  I  stand  to  you  in  tlie 
light  of  one,  to  give  you  these  warnings.  Enjoy  your  visit 
rationally,  my  boy,  and  come  home  with  a  true  report  and  a 
good  conscience.  That's  the  charge  my  old  father  always 
gave  to  me." 

]\[iss  Deveen  lived  in  a  nice  house,  north-westward,  away 
from  the  bustle  of  London.  The  road  was  wide,  the  houses 
were  semi-detached,  with  gardens  around  and  plenty  of  trees 
in  new.  Somehow  I  had  hoped  Tod  would  be  at  the  Padding- 
ton  terminus,  and  was  disappointed,  so  I  took  a  cab  and  went  on. 
Miss  Deveen  came  into  the  hall  to  receive  me,  and  said  she 
did  not  consider  me  too  big  to  be  kissed,  considering  she  was 
over  sixty.  Miss  Cattledon,  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  gave 
ine  a  linger  to  shake,  and  seemed  not  to  like  my  coming. 
Iler  waist  and  throat  were  thinner  and  longer  than  ever  ;  her 
stays  creaked  like  parchment. 

If  I'd  never  had  a  surprise  in  my  life,  I  got  one  before  I 
was  in   the  house  an  hour.      Cominof  down  from  the   bed- 

CD 

cliamber  to  which  they  had  shown  me,  a  maid-servant  passed 
me  on  the  first-floor  landino;.  It  was  Lettice  Lane  !  I  won- 
dered — believe  me  or  ]U)t,  as  you  will — I  wondeied  whether 
I  saw  straight,  and  stood  back  against  the  pillar  of  the  banistera. 

"  Why,  Lettice,  is  it  you  l  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 


301 


AT   MISS   DEVEEN'S 

"  But — what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  am  here  iu  service,  sir." 

She  rau  on  upstairs.  Lettice  iu  Miss  Deveen's  house  I  It 
was  Avorse  than  a  Chinese  puzzle. 

"  Is  that  you,  Johnny  ?     Step  in  here  ?  " 

The  voice— Miss  Deveen's — cauie  from  a  partially  open 
door,  close  at  hand.  It  was  a  small,  pretty  sitting-room,  witli 
liu-ht  blue  curtains  and  chairs.  Miss  Deveen  sat  by  the  ii re, 
ready  for  dinner.  In  her  white  body  shone  studs  of  amethyst, 
quite  as  beautiful  as  the  lost  emeralds. 

''We  call  this  the  blue-room,  Johnny.  It  is  my  own  exclu- 
sively, and  nobody  enters  it  but  upon  invitation.  Sit  down. 
Were  you  surprised  to  see  Lettice  Lane  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  much  surprised  in  all  my  life. 
She  savs  she  is  living  here." 

"Yes;  I  sent  for  her  to  helj)  my  housemaid." 

I  was  tliorougldy  mystified.  Miss  Deveen  put  down  her 
book  and  spectacles. 

"  I  have  taken  to  glasses,  Johnny." 

"  But  I  thought  you  saw  so  well." 

"  So  I  do,  for  anything  but  very  small  type — and  that  book 
seems  to  have  been  printed  for  none  but  tlie  youngest  eyes. 
And  I  see  people  as  well  as  things,"  she  added  sign.ficantly. 

I  felt  sui-e  of  that. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Johnny,  the  day  after  the  uproar  at 
Wliitney  Hall,  that  I  asked  you  to  pilot  me  to  Lettice  Lane's 
mother's,  and  to  say  nothing  about  it  i " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  You  walked  the  whole  four  miles  of  the 
way.     It  is  five  by  road." 

'•  And  back  again.  I  am  good  for  more  yet  than  some  of 
the  young  folks  are,  Johnny  ;  but  I  always  was  an  excellent 
walker.  Next  day  the  party  broke  up ;  that  pretty  giil, 
Sophie  Chalk,  departed  for  London,  and  you  and  young  Tod- 
hetley  left  later.  When  you  reached  your  home  in  the  even- 
ing, 1  don't  suppose  you  thought  I  had  been  to  Dyke  Mauoj 
the  same  day.' 


,. " 


302  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

"  No.  Had  von  reallv,  Miss  Devceii  ?" 
"Really  and  ti'uly.  TU  tell  you  now  the  reason  of  tLose 
jonrneys  of  mine.  As  Lettice  Lane  was  being  turned  out  of 
the  Hall,  she  made  a  remark  in  the  moment  of  departure 
accidentally  I  am  sure,  which  caused  me  to  be  nearly  certain 
she  was  not  guilty  of  stealing  the  studs.  Before,  while  they 
were  all  condemning  her  as  guilty,  /had  felt  doubtful  of  it : 
but  of  course  I  could  not  be  sure,  and  Miss  Cattledon  reproaches 
me  with  thinking  everybody  innocent  under  every  circunv 
Ptance — which  is  a  mistake  of  hers.  Mind,  Johnny,  the  few 
words  Lettice  said  might  have  been  used  designedly,  by  one 
crafty  and  guilty,  on  purpose  to  throw  me  off  the  suspicion  : 
but  1  felt  nearly  fully  persuaded  that  the  girl  had  spoken 
them  in  unconscious  innocence  I  went  to  her  mother's  to  see 
them  both ;  I  am  fond  of  looking  into  things  with  mv  own 
eyes  ;  and  I  came  away  with  my  good  opinion  increased.  I 
went  next  to  Mrs.  Todhetley's  to  hear  what  she  said  of  the 
girl ;  I  saw  her  and  your  old  nurse,  Hannah,  making  it  my 
request  to  both  of  them  not  to  speak  of  my  visit.  They  gave 
the  girl  a  good  character  for  honesty  ;  Mi"s.  Todhetley  thought 
her  quite  incapable  of  taking  the  studs ;  Hannah  could  not 
say  what  a  foolish  girl  with  roving  id(!as  of  Australia  in  her 
head  might  do  in  a  moment  of  temjitatioii.  In  less  than  a 
fortnight  I  was  l)ack  in  London,  having  paid  my  visit  to  Bath 
1  had  heeu  reliecting  all  that  while,  Johnny,  on  the  cruel 
blight  this  must  be  on  Lettice  Lane,  supposing  that  she  was 
innoc(nit.  I  tliought  the  probabilities  were  that  she  was  inno- 
cent, not  o-uiltv  ;  and  1  determined  to  offer  her  a  home  in  my 
own  house  during  the  uncertainty.  She  seemed  only  too  glad 
to  accept  it,  and  here  she  is.  If  the  girl  should  eventually 
turn  out  to  be  innocent,  I  shall  have  done  her  a  real  service  ; 
if  guilty,  why  I  shall  not  regret  having  held  out  a  helping  hand 
to  her,  that  may  peihaps  save  her  for  the  futur<\" 

"It  was  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you.  Miss  Deveen  !  " 
"My  chief  dithculty  lay  in  keeping  the  suspicion  on  Lettit^e 
Lane  a  secret  from  my  household.     Fortunately  I  had   taken 


AT  MISS  deveen's.  303 

no  servants  with  me  to  AYliitney  Hall,  my  maid  having  l)een 
ill  at  the  time;  but  Cattledon  is  outrageously  virtuous,  and  of 
course  proportionally  bitter  against  Lettice.  Yuu  saw  that  at 
AYhitnev." 

"  She  would  have  been  the  first  to  tell  of  her.'' 

"  Yes.  I  had  to  put  the  thing  rather  strongly  to  Miss  Cuttle- 
don — '  Hold  \our  tongue  or  leave  nie.'  It  answered,  Johnny. 
Cattledon  likes  her  place  here,  and  acts  accordingly.  Slio 
picks  np  her  petticoats  from  contamination  when  she  meets 
the  unfortunate  Lettice  ;  but  she  takes  care  to  hold  her  tongue." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  ever  be  found  out,  Miss  Deveen  ^" 

"  I  hope  it  will." 

"  But  who — could  have  taken  them  ?  "  And  the  thought 
of  what  I  had  said  to  Anna  Whitnev,  that  it  mio-ht  be  Miss 
Cattledon  herself,  flashed  over  me  as  I  put  the  question. 

"  I  think  " — Miss  Deveen  glanced  round  as  if  to  make  snre 
we  were  alone,  and  dropped  her  voice  a  little — "  that  it  must 
have  been  one  of  the  guests  who  came  to  Whitney  Hall  that 
night.  Cattledon  let  out  one  thing,  but  not  until  after  we 
were  at  home,  for  the  fact  seemed  not  to  have  made  tlie  least 
impression  onhermemoiy  at  the  time  ;  but  it  came  back  after- 
wai'ds.  When  she  was  cpiitting  her  room  after  dressing  that 
evening — I  being  already  out  of  mine  and  gone  down — she 
saw  the  shawl  she  had  worn  in  the  afternoon  lyino;  across  a 
chair  just  as  she  had  thrown  it  off.  She  is  very  careful  of 
her  clotlies;  and  hesitated,  she  said,  whether  to  go  back  then 
and  fold  it;  but,  knowing  she  was  late,  did  not  do  so.  She 
had  been  down-stairs  about  ten  minutes,  when  1  asked  her  to 
fetch  my  fan,  which  I  had  forgotten..  Upon  going  through 
her  room  to  mine,  she  saw  the  shawl  lyiiig  on  the  floor,  and 
picked  it  np,  wondering  how  it  could  liave  come  there.  At 
that  time  the  maids  had  not  been  in  to  put  eitlier  her  room  or 
mine  to  rights.  Now  what  I  infer,  Johnny,  is  that  my  jewel- 
case  was  visited  and  the  studs  were  stolen  before  Lettice  Lane 
and  Mrs.  Lease  went  near  the  rooms,  and  that  the  thief,  in  her 
hurry  to  escape,  brushed  against  the  shawl  and  threw  it  down.'* 


fiO^  AT   MISS    DEVEEN  S. 

"  And  cannot  Miss  Cattledon  see  the  probability  of  that?*' 

"  Slie  will  not  see  it.  Lettice  Lane  is  guilty  with  her,  and 
nobody  else.  Prejudice  goes  a  long  way  in  this  world,  Johnny. 
Tlie  people  who  came  to  the  dance  that  night  were  taking  off 
their  things  in  the  next  room  to  Miss  Cattledon's,  and  1  thinh 
it  likely  that  some  one  of  them  may  have  found  a  way  into 
my  chamber,  perhaps  even  by  accident,  and  the  sight  of  the 
brilliant  emerald  studs — they  were  more  beautiful  than  any 
they  were  lying  with — was  too  nmch  for  human  equaninn'ty. 
It  was  my  fault  f(n*  leaving  the  dressing-case  open — and  do 
you  know,  Johnny,  I  believe  I  left  it  literally  02^en — I  can 
never  fori>"et  tJiat." 

"  But  Lettice  Lane  said  it  was  shut:  shut  but  not  locked." 

"  Well,  it  is  upon  my  conscience  that  I  left  it  open.  Who- 
ever took  the  studs  may  have  shut  down  the  lid,  in  precaution 
or  forgetfulness.  Meanwhile,  Jolnmy,  don't  you  say  anything 
of  what  I  have  told  yon  ;  at  the  Whitney's  or  elsewhere.  The} 
do  not  know  that  Lettice  Lane  is  with  me  ;  they  are  prejudiced 
against  her,  especially  Sir  John;  and  Lettice  has  orders  to 
keep  out  of  the  wa}'  of  visitors.  Should  they  by  chance  see 
her,  why,  I  shall  say  that  as  the  case  was  at  best  doubtful,  I 
am  i^ivino;  the  i^irl  a  chance  to  redeem  her  <>;ood  name.  We 
are  going  there  after  dinner.     So  mind  you  keep  counsel." 

"To  t!iie  Whitneys?" 

"  It  is  only  next  door,  as  you  may  say.  I  did  not  mentiou 
that  you  were  coming  up,"  she  added,  "  so  there  will  be  a  sur- 
prise for  them.  And  now  we  will  go  down.  Here,  carry  m^" 
book  for  me,  Johnny." 

In  tlie  di-awinij-room  we  found  a  ijrev-haii'ed  curate,  with  a 
mild  voice;  ]\Iiss  Oatlledon  was  simpei'ing  and  smiling  upon 
Uim.  I  gathered  that  he  did  duty  in  the  church  hard  by,  and 
liad  come  to  dinner  by  invitntion.  He  took  in  Miss  De\een 
and  that  other  blessed  lady  fell  to  me.  It  was  a  good  dinner, — 
Miss  Deveen  carvino-  :  uncomnionlv  ij-O'xl  to  me  after  iut 
journey.  Didn't  Miss  Deveen  make  me  eat !  She  said  she 
knew  what  boys'  appetites  were.     After  the  salmon,  before  I 


AT  isnss  deteen's.  305 

had  finislied  one  joint  she  put  on  my  plate  anotlier ;  rirst  a  lef» 
and  a  nierrv-tliouirlit,  then  a  wma:  and  some  bones,  besides  the 
stuffing  and  tongue.  The  curate  took  liis  leave,  but  Miss 
Deveen  sat  on  ;  she  fancied  to  have  heard  that  the  Wliitnejs 
Mere  to  have  friends  to  dinner  that  night,  and  would  not  go 
.in  too  earlv. 

About  half  a  dozen  houses  lay  between,  and  Miss  Deveen 
put  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  ran  the  distance.  ''  Such  a 
mistake,  to  have  taken  a  place  for  them  so  near  Hyde  Park  ! '' 
whis[>ered  Cattledon  as  we  were  following — and  I'm  sure  she 
must  have  been  in  a  gracious  mood  to  give  me  the  confidence. 
"  Neither  Sir  John  nor  Miss  Deveen  has  nmcli  notion  of  the 
requirements  of  fashionable  society,  Mr.  Ludlow :  as  to  poor 
Lady  Whitney,  she  is  a  very  owl  in  all  tiiat  relates  to  it." 

Poor  Lady  Whitney — not  looking  like  an  owl,  but  a  plain, 
good-hearted  English  mother — was  the  first  to  see  us.  There 
was  no  dinner  party  after  all.  She  sat  on  a  chair  just  inside 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  precisely  the  same  in  build  and 
size  as  Miss  Deveen's,  but  had  not  her  handsome  furniture. 
Slie  said  she  was  i^^lad  to  see  me,  and  would  have  invited  me 
with  Joe,  but  for  want  of  beds. 

They  were  all  grouped  at  the  otlier  end  of  the  room,  play- 
ing at  forfeits,  and  a  vast  deal  too  busy  to  notice  me.  I  had 
leisure  to  look  at  them.  Helen  was  tallying  very  fast :  Harry 
shouting;  Anna  sat  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand;  Tod 
stood  frowning  and  ano^ry  ao-ainst  the  wall  ;  the  vounor  ones 
were  jumping  about  like  savages  ;  and  Bill  Whitney  was  stuck 
on  a  stool,  his  eyes  bandaged,  and  the  tips  of  a  girl's  white 
fingers  touching  his  hands.  A  fairy,  rather  than  a  girl,  for 
that's  what  she  looked  Hke,  with  her  small,  light  figure  and 
her  gauze  skirts  floating:  Miss  Sophie  Clialk. 

Bat  what  on  earth  had  come  to  her  hair  ?  It  used  to  be  brown  ; 
it  was  now  light,  and  gleaming  with  golden  spangles.  Perhaps 
it  belonge  3  to  her  fairy  nature. 

Suddenly  Bill  shouted  out  "  Miss  Chalk,"  threw  off  the  ban- 
dage, and  caught  her  hands  to  kiss  her !     It  was  ail  in  the  for- 


306  AT    MI8S   DEVEENS. 

feits :  he  had  a  right  to  do  it,  because  he  guessed  her  name. 
She  huiolicd  and  struggled,  tlie  children  and  Helen  were  aa 
wild  Indians  with  glee,  and  Tod  looked  lit  to  bring  the  roof 
down.     Just  as  Bill  gave  the  kiss,  Anna  saw  me. 

Of  course  it  created  an  interlude,  and  the  forfeits  were 
thrown  np.  Tod  came  out  of  his  passion,  feeling  a  little 
fj'ightencd. 

"  Johnny  !  Why,  M-hat  in  the  world  brings  you  here  ?  Any- 
thing amiss  with  my  father?  " 

"I  am  only  come  up  on  a  visit,  Tod,  to  Miss  Deveen." 

"Well,  Fm  sure!"  cried  Tod  ;  as  if  he  thought  he  ought 
to  have  all  the  visiting,  and  I  none. 

Sophie  put  her  hand  into  mine.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you, 
again,-'  she  said  in  her  softest  tone.  "And  dear  Mrs.  Tod- 
hetley,  how  is  she?  and  the  sweet  children  ?  " 

But  she  never  waited  to  hear  how ;  for  she  turned  away  at 
some  question  put  by  Bill  Whitney. 

Sir  John  came  in,  and  the  four  old  ones  sat  down  to  their 
whist  in  the  small  drawing-room  opening  from  this.  Tiie 
children  were  sent  to  bed.  Sophie  Chalk  went  to  the  piano 
to  sing  a  song  under  her  breath,  Tod  putting  himself  ou  one 
eide,  IJill  on  the  other. 

"Are  hoth  of  them  c-oiuij  in  for  the  lady's  favour?"  I 
asked  of  Anna,  pointing  to  the  piano,  as  she  made  room  for 
me  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  thiidv  Miss  Chalk  would  like  it,  Jc^hnny." 

"  How  well  Bill  is  looking  !  " 

"  Oh,  he  has  quite  rec(.)vered  ;  he  seems  all  the  stronger  for 
Lis  hurt.     1  suj>pose  the  rest  and  the  luu-sing  set  him  up." 

"  Is  Sophie  Chalk  staying  here  ?  " 

"  Xo  ;  there's  hardly  room  for  her.  But  she  has  been  hero 
every  day  and  all  day  since  we  came  uj).  They  send  her 
liome  in  a  cab  at  night,  ami  one  of  the  maids  has  to  go  with 
her.     It  is  IleleiTs  an-auirement." 

"Do  you  like  London,  Anna?" 

••  iNo.     I  wi.-sli  I  had  stayed  at  home." 


AT   MISS    DEVEEN'8.  307 

<'  But  why  ?  " 

"  Well — but  1  can't  tell  you  every  reason," 

"  Tell  me  one  ?  " 

Anna  did  not  answer.  She  sat  lookins:  out  straight  before, 
her,  her  eyes  full  of  trouble. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  all  nothing,  Johnny.  I  may  be  fanciful  and 
foolish,  and  so  take  up  mistaken  notions.  Wrong  ones,  op 
more  points  than  one." 

"  Do  you  mean  {inythw^— there  f  " 

"Yes.  It  would  be — /  tliink — a  terrible  misfortune  for 
BS  if  William  were  to  engage  himself  to  Sophie  Chalk." 

"  You  mean  Tod,  Anna  ?  "  I  said,  impulsively. 

She  blushed  like  a  rose.  "  Down  at  Whitney  I  did  tliink  it 
wras  he  ;  but  since  we  came  here  she  seeuis  to  have  changed : 
to  be — to  be " 

"  Going  in  for  Bill.     I  put  it  plainly  you  see,  Anna." 

"  I  cannot  help  fearing  that  it  would  be  a  very  sad  mistake 
for  either  of  them.  Oh,  Johnny,  I  am  just  tormented  out  of 
my  peace,  doubting  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  speak.  Some- 
times I  say  to  myself,  yes  it  would  be  right,  it  is  my  duty. 
And  then  again  I  fancy  that  I  am  altogether  mistaken,  and 
that  there's  nothing  for  me  to  say." 

"  But  what  could  you  say,  Auna?  " 

Auna  had  been  nervously  winding  her  thin  gold  chain 
round  her  linger.     She  unwouud  it  again  before  answering. 

''  Of  course — what  could  I  ?  And  if  I  were  to  speak,  and 
■ — ai\(l — find  there  was  no  cause,"  she  dreamily  added,  "  I 
Bhould  never  forgive  myself.  The  shame  of  it  would  resl 
with  me  throughout  life." 

"  Well,  I  dout  see  that,  Anna.  Just  because  you  faiu;ied 
things  were  serious  when  they  were  not  so !  Where  W(  uld 
be  the  shame  ?  " 

"  You  don't  understand,  Johnny.  /  should  feel  it.  And 
BO  I  wish  I  had  stayed  down  at  Whitney,  out  of  the  reach  of 
torment.  I  wish  another  thing  with  all  my  heart — that 
Helen  would  not  have  Sophie  Chalk  here." 


308  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

"  I  think  yon  may  take  one  consolation  to  yourself,  Anna — 
that  whatever  voii  mii^ht  uri^e  aij-ainst  her,  it  would  nios^ 
likely  make  not  the  smallest  difference  one  way  or  the  other 
With  Tod  I  am  sure  it  would  nut.  If  he  set  his  mind  on 
marrying  Sophie  Chalk,  other  people's  grumbling  would  not 
turn  him  from  it." 

"It  might  depeiul  a  little  on  what  the  grumblings  were," 
returned  xVima,  as  if  lighting  for  the  last  word.  "  But  there  ; 
let  it  drop.     I'd  I'ather  say  no  more." 

She  got  up  U)  reach  a  photograph  book,  and  we  began  look- 
ing over  it  together. 

"Good  gracious!  Here's  Miss  Cattledon  ?  Small  waist 
aiul  all !  " 

Anna  laughed.  "  She  had  it  taken  in  Bath,  and  sent  it  to 
William,     He  had  only  asked  her  for  it  in  joke." 

"  So  those  studs  have  never  turned  up,  Anna?  " 

"  No.  I  wish  they  would.  I  should  pray  night  and  morn- 
ing for  it,  if  I  thought  it  would  do  nobody  an  injury." 

"  Johnny  !  "  called  out  Sir  John. 

•'  Yes,  sir." 

"  Come  you,  and  take  my  hand  for  five  min\ites.  I  have 
jnst  remembered  a  note  I  ought  to  have  written  this  after- 
noon." 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  ])lay  badly,"  I  said  to  Lady  Whitney, 
who  had  fallen  to  Sir  John  in  cutting  tor  [)artuers. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  what  iloes  it  matter?  "  she  kindly  answered. 
"  I  don't  mind  if  you  do.     I  d.)  iu)t  play  well  myself." 


The  next  morniun:  Miss  Cattledou  went  out  to  ten  oVdo^k 
daily  service.  Miss  Deveen  said  she  had  taken  to  the  hal>it 
of  doing  so.  I  wondered  whether  it  was  for  the  sake  of  re- 
ligion, or  f(u-  that  i:;rev-h;iired  curate  wli)  did  the  prayers. 
Sitting  by  ouivselves,  I  told  Miss  Deveen  of  the  commission 
I  had  from  Mrs.  Todhetley ;  and  somehow,  without  my  in- 
tending it,  she  gathered  a  little  more. 


AT  MISS  deveen's.  309 

"Go  by  all  means,  and  learn  what  you  can,  Johnny.  Go 
at  once.  I  don't  think  yon  need,  any  of  yon,  be  afraid, 
tliono-h,"  she  added,  lauo-hino;.  "  I  have  seen  very  much  of 
boy  and  girl  love ;  seen  that  it  rarely  comes  to  anything. 
Toniiir  men  mostlv  o-o  throno-li  one  or  two  such  episodes  be- 
fore  settling  seriously  to  the  business  of  life." 

The  omnibus  took  me  to  Oxford  Street,  and  I  found  my 
way  from  thence  to  Torriana  Square.  It  proved  to  be  a  cor- 
ner house,  its  fnmt  entrance  being  in  the  square.  But  there 
was  a  smaller  entrance  on  the  side  (which  was  rather  a  bus- 
tling street),  and  a  kind  of  office  window,  on  the  wire  blind  of 
which  was  written,  in  white  letters,  "  Mr.  Smith,  wine- mer- 
chant." 

A  wine-merchant!  Well,  I  was  surprised.  Could  there 
be  any  mistake  %  No,  it  was  the  riglit  number.  But  I  thought 
there  must  be,  and  stood  staring  at  the  place  with  both  eyes. 
That  loa^  a  come-down.  Not  but  what  wine-merchants  are 
as  good  as  other  people ;  only  Sophie  Chalk  had  somehow 
imparted  the  notion  of  their  living  up  to  lords  and  ladies." 

I  asked  at  the  front  door  for  Mrs.  Smith,  and  was  shown 
upstairs  t£)  a  handsome  drawing-room.  A  little  girl,  with  a 
sallow  face,  thin  and  sickly,  was  seated  there.  She  did  not 
get  up,  only  stared  at  me  with  her  dark,  keen,  deep-set 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  where  your  mamma  is.  Miss  Trot  ?  "  asked 
the  servant,  putting  a  chair. 

"  You  can  go  and  search  for  her." 

She  looked  at  me  so  intently  as  the  maid  left  the  room, 
that  I  told  her  who  I  was,  and  what  I  had  come  for.  The 
child's  tongue— it  seemed  as  sharp  a  one  as  Miss  Cattledon's 
— was  let  lof>se. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,  Jolmny  Lndh)w.  Mrs.  Smith  would 
be  glad  to  see  you.     You  had  better  wait." 

I  don't  know  how  it  is  that  I  nuike  myself  at  home  with 
people  ;  or,  rather,  that  people  seem  so  soon  to  be  at  home 
with  me.     I  don't  try  for  it,  but  it  is  alwa}S  so.     In  two  oi 


310  AT   MISS    DETKKN's. 

three  minutes,  when  the  o^irl  was  talking  to  me  as  freely  ae 
thongli  I  were  her  brother,  the  maid  came  back  again. 

"  Miss  Tn^t,  I  cannot  find  your  mamma." 

"  Mrs.  Smitli's  out.  Ihit  I  was  not  ()l)liged  to  tell  you  sa 
ril  not  spare  you  any  work  when  you  call  me  Miss  Trot." 

Tlie  maid's  only  answer  was  to  leave  the  room  :  and  the 
little  girl — who  spoke  like  a  woman — .<liook  her  dark  hair 
from  her  face  in  temper. 

"  Fve  told  them  over  and  over  again  I  will  not  be  called 
Miss  Tn^t.  How  would  you  like  it?  Because  my  mamma 
took  to  say  it  when  I  was  a  baby,  it  is  no  reason  why  other 
people  should." 

"  Perhaps  your  mamma  says  it  still,  and  so  they  fall  into 
it  also." 

"  My  mamma  is  dead." 

Just  at  the  moment  I  did  not  take  the  meaninof  of  the 
words.     "  !Mi-s.  Smith  dead  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Smith  is  not  my  mother.  Don't  you  insult  me, 
please.  She  came  here  as  my  governess.  If  papa  chose  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself  by  marrying  her  afterwards,  it  waa 
not  my  fault.     What  are  you  looking  at  ?  " 

I  was  lo!)kini>:  at  her:  she  seemed  so  stranire  a  child  :  and 
feeling  slightly  puzzled  between  the  other  Mrs.  Smith  and 
this  one.  They  say  1  am  a  muff  at  many  things.  I'm  sure  I 
am  at  understandiTig  complicated  relationships. 

"Then— Miss  Chalk  is— this  Mrs.  Smith's  sister?" 

"  Well,  you  might  know  that.  They  are  a  pair,  and  I 
don't  like  either  of  them.  There  are  two  crying  babies  up- 
stairs now." 

"Mrs.  Smith's?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Smith's  " — with  intense  aggravation.  "  Papa 
had  quite  enough  with  me,  and  I  could  have  managed  the 
house  and  servants  as  well  as  ske  does.  And  because  Nancy 
Chalk  was  not  enough,  in  addition  we  must  l)e  never  safe 
from  Sophouisba!     Oh,  there  are  crosses  iu  life!" 

"WhoisSophmisba?" 


AT    MT6S    DEVEEN's.  311 

"  She  is  Soplionisba.'' 
"  Perhaps  you  mean  Sophie  Chalk  ?  " 

"  Her  uarne's  not  Sophie,  or  Sophia  either.     She  was  chris- 
tened Sophonisba,  but  she  hates  the  name,  and  takes  care  tc 
dr!>p  it  always.     She  is  a  deep  one,  is  Sophonisba  Chalk  !  " 
"Is  this  her  homer' 

"  She  makes  it  her  home,  when  she's  not  out  teacliing 
And  papa  never  seems  to  see  it  as  an  encroachment.  Sopho- 
nisba Chalk  does  not  keep  her  places,  you  know.  She 
thou'dit  she  had  (jot  into  somethino-  fine  last  autumn  at  Lord 
Aii<^ustus  Difford's,  but  Lady  Augustus  gave  her  warning  at 
the  first  mouth's  end." 

"  Then  Miss  Chalk  is  a  governess  ?  " 

"  What  else  do  you  suppose  she  is  ?  She  comes  over  people, 
and  gets  a  stock  of  invitations  on  hand,  and  goes  to  them  be- 
tween times.  You  should  hear  the  trouble  there  is  about  her 
dresses,  that  she  may  make  a  good  appearance.  And  how 
she  does  it  I  can't  think;  they  don't  tell  me  their  contri- 
vances. Mrs.  Smith  must  give  her  some — I  am  sure  of  it— - 
which  papa  has  to  pay  for ;  and  Sophonisba  goes  in  trust 
for  others." 

"  She  was  always  dressed  well  down  with  us." 
"  Of    course  she  was.     Whitney  Hall  was  her  gi-eat  card 
place ;  but  the  time  for  the   visit  was  so  long  before   it  was 
fixed,  she  thought  it  had  all  dropped  through.      It  came  just 
right:  just  when  she  was  turned  out  of  Lady  Augustus  Dif- 
ford's.   Helen  Wliitney  had  promised  it  a  long  while  before." 
"  1  know  ;  when  they  wei-e  schoolfellows  at  Miss  Lakon's." 
"  Tliey  were  not  schoolfellows.     Sophonisba  was  ti-eated  as 
ihe  rest,  but  she  was  only  improving  pupil.     She  gave  her 
Ber\ices,  learnt  of  some  of   the  masters,  and    paid   nothing 
U  >w  old  do  you  think  she  is  ?  "  l)roke  oif  Miss  Trot. 
"  About  twenty." 

"  She  was  six-and-twenty  last  birthday  ;  and  they  say  she 
will  look  like  a  child  till  she's  six-and-thirtv.  I  call  it  a  shame 
for  a  young  woman  of  that  age  to  be  doing  nothing  for  herself, 


312  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

but  to  be  living  on  strangers  ;  and  papa  and  I  are  nothing  else 
tu  lier." 

"  How  old  are  yon  ?  "  I  could  not  help  asking. 

"  Fifteen:  nearly  sixteen.  People  take  me  to  be  younger, 
because  I  am  short,  and  it  vexes  me.  They'd  not  think  me 
yomij.!:  if  tliey  knew  liow  I  feel.  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  it  is  a 
fiharpcning  thing  foi'  your  papa  to  marry  again,  and  to  find 
youiself  put  down  in  your  own  home." 

"•  Has  Miss  Cludk  any  engagement  now?  " 

''  Slie  has  not  had  an  eniraiji-emeut  all  this  year,  and  now  it's 
April  !  I  don't  believe  she  looks  after  one.  She  pi-etends  to 
teacli  me — while  she's  waiting,  she  says;  but  it's  all  a  f  arce  ^ 
1  won't  learn  of  her,  I  heard  her  tell  Mr.  Everty  I  was  a 
horrid  child.     Fancy  that !  " 

"Who  is  Mr.  Everty!" 

"  rai)a's  head-clerk.  He  is  a  gentleman,  yon  know,  and 
Sophonisba  thinks  great  things  of  him.  Ah,  I  could  tell  some- 
thing, if  I  liked  !  but  she  put  me  on  my  honour.  Oh,  she's  a 
sly  one  !  Just  now,  she  is  all  her  time  at  the  Whitneys,  fire- 
hot  for  it.      You  are  not  going?     Stay  to  luncheon." 

"  I  must  iTO  ;  Miss  Deveen  will  be  waitino;  for  me.  You  can 
deliver  the  parcel,  please,  with  Mrs.  Ttxlhetley's  message.  I 
will  call  in  to  see  Mrs.  Smith  another  day." 

"  And  to  see  me  too  ? "  came  the  quick  retort. 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"Now,  mind  ^'on  don't  break  your  word.  I  shall  say  it  is 
me  you  are  coming  to  call  upon  ;  they  think  I  am  nobody  in 
this  house.  Ask  for  Miss  Smith  when  you  come.  Good- 
bye, Johnny  Ludlow!  " 

She  never  stin-ed  as  I  shook  hands  ;  she  seemed  never  to 
have  stirred  hand  or  foot  throughout  the  interview.  But,  as  I 
opened  the  door,  there  came  an  odd  sort  of  noise,  and  I  turned 
to  look  what  it  was. 

She.  Hastening  to  cross  the  room,  with  a  crutch,  to  ring 
the  bell !     And  I  saw  that  she  was  both  lame  and  deformed 

In  passing  down  the  side  street  by  the  office,  some  one 


AT  inss  deveen's.  S13 

rnslied  br,  with  tlie  quick  step  of  a  Loiid(  n  biipiiiess  man. 
Where  had  I  seen  the  face  before?  "Whose  did  it  put  nie  in 
mind  of'^  Why — it  came  to  me  all  in  a  minute — Roger 
Moidv's !  He  who  had  lived  at  Dyke  Manor  foi-  a  short  while  as 
bead  gardener  under  false  auspices.  But,  as  I  have  not  said 
anvthing  about  him  before,  I  will  not  enter  into  the  history 
now.  Before  I  could  turn  to  look,  Monk  had  disappeared  ;  no 
doubt  round  tlie  corner  of  the  square. 

"  Tod,'-  I  said,  as  soon  as  1  came  across  hira,  "  Sopliie  Chalk's 
a  governess." 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  asked  Tod. 

"  isot  much ;  but  she  might  as  well  have  been  candid  with 
ns  at  Dyke  Manor." 

"  A  governess  is  a  lad  v." 

"Ought  to  be.  But  why  did  she  make  out  tons  that  she 
had  been  a  visitor  at  the  Diffords',  when  she  was  only  the 
teacher?  We  should  have  respected  her  just  as  much;  per- 
haps, made  more  of  her." 

"  What  are  you  cavilling  at  ?  As  if  a  lady  were  never  a 
teacher  before ! " 

"  Oh,  Tod  !  it  is  not  that.  Don't  you  see  ? — if  she  had  kept 
a  chandler's  shop,  and  been  open  about  it,  what  should  we 
have  cared  ?  It  was  the  sailing  under  false  colours  ;  the  try- 
ing to  pass  herself  off  for  Mhat  she  is  not." 

He  gave  no  answer  to  this,  except  a  whistle. 

"  She  is  turned  six-and-twenty,  Tod.  And  she  was  not  a 
Bchool-girl  at  Miss  Lakon's  but  governess-pupil." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  a  school-girl  once  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  was." 

"  Good.     What  else  have  yon  to  say,  wise  Johnny  ? " 

"  Nothing." 

Kothing  ;  for  where  was  the  use?  Sophie  Chalk  would 
liave  been  onlv  an  anijel  in  his  eves,  thouo;h  he  heard  that 
she  had  sold  apples  at  a  street-corner.  Sophie,  that  very 
morning,  had  begged  Lady  Whitney  to  let  her  instruct  the 
younger  children,  "  aj  a  friend,"  so  long  as  they  were  in  town  ; 
14 


314  AT   MISS    DKVEEN'8. 

for  fl  10  governess  at  Wl  itney  was  a  daily  one,  ai.d  tliev  had  not 
brono-ht  her.  Lady  Whitney  at  lirst  denuu-red,  and  then 
kissed  Sophie  for  her  goodness.  The  result  was,  that  a  l)ed 
Avas  found  lor  Miss  Chalk,  and  she  staved  with  them  aho- 
gether. 

J>nt  I  can't  say  much  foi-  the  tea(;]iing.  It  was  not  Sophie 
Chalk's  fault,  pei'haps.  Ileh'U  would  be  in  the  school-rooraj 
and  Harry  would  be  thei-e  ;  and  I  and  Anna  sometimes:  and 
Tod  and  Hill  always.  Ladv  Whitney  looked  upon  this  Lon- 
don  sojourn  as  a  holiday,  and  did  not  mind  whether  the  chil- 
dren learnt  or  played,  provided  they  were  kept  passably  quiet. 
I  told  Sophie  of  my  visit  to  take  the  tichu,  and  she  made  a 
"wrv  face  over  the  lame  irirl. 

"  That  Mabel  Smith  !  Poor  morbid  little  object !  A7hat 
she  would  have  grown  into  but  for  the  fortunate  chance  of  my 
sister's  marrying  into  the  house,  I  can't  imagine,  J(;hnny.  I'll 
di'aw  you  her  portrait  in  her  night-cap,  by  and  by." 

The  days  went  on.     We  did  have  fun  :  but  war  was  grow- 
ing up  between  William  Whitney  and  Tod.     There  could  no 
Icniger  be  a  mistake  (to  those  who  understood  things  and  kept 
their  eyes  open)  of  the  part  Sophie  Chalk  was  playing ;  and      _ 
that  was  tlie  trying  to  throw  Tod  over  for  AV^illiam  Vv^hitney     I 
and  to  make  no  fuss  about  it.     I  don't  believe  she  cared  s     f 
brass   button   for  either:   but  Bill's    future    position    in    life 
Mould  be  better  than  Tod's,  seeing  that  his  father  Avas  a  ba 
ronet.     Bill  was  going  in  for  her  favour;  perhajis  not  seri- 
ously :   it  might  have  been  for  the  fun  of  the  moment,  or  to 
amuse  himself  by  s})iting  Tod.     Sir  John  and  my  lady  nevtr 
so  much  as  dreamt  of  the  by-play  running  on  before  their 
fa(;e,  and  I  don't  think  Helen  did. 

''I  told  yon  she'd  fascinate  the  hair  off  your  head.  Bill,  if 
you  give  her  the  chan(;e,"  said  I  to  him  one  day  in  the  school- 
room, when  Miss  Chalk  was  teacbing  her  pupils  to  dance. 

"  You  shut  np.  Johnny,"  he  said,  laughing,  and  shied  the 
fttlas  at  me. 

Before  the  day  was  out,  there  was  a  sharp,  short  quarrel. 


AT  MISS  deveen's.  315 

Thej  woie  all  coming  for  the  evening  to  M.ss  Deveen's.  1 
went  in  at  dusk  to  tell  them  not  to  make  it  nine  at  nigiit. 
Turning  into  the  drawing-room,  I  interrupted  a  scene — liill 
Whitney  and  Tod  railing  at  one  another.  What  the  b')ne  of 
dispute  was  I  never  knew,  for  they  seemed  to  have  got  to  the 
tail  of  it. 

"  You  did,"  said  Tod. 

"  I  did  not,"  said  Bill. 

"  I  tell  yon,  you  did,  William  ^Yhitney." 

"  Let  it  iro;  it's  word  as-ainst  word,  and  we  shall  never  de- 
cide  it.  You  are  mistaken,  Todhetley  :  but  I  am  not  going 
to  ask  your  leave  what  1  shall  do,  or  what  I  sha'n't." 

''  You  ha\e  no  right  to  say  to  Miss  Chalk  what  I  heard  you 
saying  to-day." 

'•  I  tell  you,  you  did  not  hear  me  say  anything  of  the  soi-t 
But  if  that  you  did — what  business  is  it  of  yours  'i  If  I  choose 
to  go  in  for  her,  to  ask  her  to  be  the  future  Lady  Whitney — 
many  a  year  may  it  be,  though,  I  hope,  before  I  step  into  ray 
father's  place,  good  old  man  !— who  has  the  right  to  say  me 
nay?" 

Tod  was  foaming.  Dusk  though  it  was,  I  could  see  that 
They  took  no  more  account  of  my  being  present  than  of 
Harry's  little  barking  dog. 

"  Look  here.  Bill  Whitney.     If " 

"  Are  you  boys  quarrelling?" 

The  interruption  was  Anna's.  Passing  across  the  hall,  she 
had  heard  the  voices  and  looked  in.  As  if  glad  of  the  excuse 
to  get  av.-ay,  Bill  Whitney  followed  her  from  the  room.  Tod 
went  out  and  banged  the  hall-door  after  him. 

1  waited,  thinkins"  Anna  miWit  come  in,  and  strolled  into 
the  little  di'awing-room.  There,  quiet  as  a  mouse,  stood  Sophie 
Chalk.  She  had  l)een  listening,  for  certain  ;  and  I  hope  it 
gratified  her  :  her  eyes  sparkled  a  little. 

"  Why,  Johnny  !  was  it  i/oii  making  all  that  noise  ?  What 
was  the  matter  ?     Anything  gone  wrong  ?  " 

It  was  all  vei-y  fine  to  try  it  on  with  me.     I  just  looked 


316  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

Btraiir'it  at  her,  and  I  tliiiik  slie  saw  as  imuih.  Savino 
Bomethiiig  about  going  to  search  for  Helen,  she  left  the 
room. 

"  What  was  the  trouble,  Johnny  ?  "  whispered  Anna,  steal- 
ing up  to  me. 

"  Only  those  two  having  a  jar." 

"  [  heai-d  that.     But  what  was  it  about?     Sophie  Chalk?  " 

"  Well,  yes  ;  that  was  it,  Anna." 

"We  were  at  the  front  window  then.  A  man  was  lii>;hting 
the  lamps  in  the  I'oad,  and  Anna  seemed  to  be  occupied  in 
■watching  him.  There  was  enough  cai'e  on  her  face  to  set  one 
up  in  the  dismals  for  life. 

"  No  harm  may  come  of  it,  Anna.  Any  way,  you  can  do 
nothing." 

"  Oh,  Johnny,  1  wish  she  knew  !  "  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands.  "I  wish  1  could  satisfy  myself  which  way  the  right 
lies.  If  I  were  to  speak,  it  nn'ght  be  put  down  to  the  wrong 
motive.  I  ti-y  to  see  whether  that  thought  is  not  a  selfish  one, 
whether  I  ouij-ht  to  let  it  deter  me.  But  then — but  then — 
that's  not  the  worst." 

"  That  sounds  like  a  riddle,  Anna." 

''  I  wish  I  had  some  good,  judicious  person  who  would  hear 
all  and  judge  for  me,"  she  said,  rather  dreamily.  "  If  you 
wei-e  older,  Johmiy,  I  thiidc  1  would  tell  you." 

"  1  am  as  oid  as  you,  at  any  rate." 

"That's  just  it.  We  are  neither  of  ns  old  enough  nor  ex- 
perienced enough  to  trust  to  our  own  judgment." 

"  There's  your  mothei",  Anna." 

"  I  know.'"' 

"What  you  moan  is,  that  Sir  John  and  Lady  Whitney 
ought  to  have  their  eyes  opened  to  what's  going  on,  that  they 
may  ])ut  an  end  to  Miss  Chalk's  intimacy  here,  if  they  deem 
the  dan<>;er  warrants  it?  " 

"  Tiiat's  near  enough,  Johnny.  And  I  don't  see  my  wa^ 
Bufhciently  clear  to  do  it." 

^'Put  the  case  to  Helen." 


AT  MISS  deveen's.  317 

"  She  "vronld  only  langh  in  my  face.     Hush !  here  coniea 


some  one." 


It  was  Sophie  Clialk.  She  looked  rather  sharply  at  us 
both,  and  said  she  could  not  find  Helen  anywhere. 

And  the  days  were  to  go  on  in  public  smoothness  and  pri- 
vate discomfort,  Miss  Sojihie  exercising  her  fascinations  oa 
the  whole  of  us. 


But  for  having  promised  tliat  lame  child  to  call  again  in 
Torriana  Scpiare,  I  should  not  have  cared  to  go.  It  waa 
afternoon  this  time.  The  servant  showed  me  u})stairs,  and 
said  her  mistress  was  for  the  moment  engaged.  Mabel  Smitli 
sat  in  the  same  seat  in  her  black  frock ;  some  books  lay  on  a 
small  table  drawn  before  her. 

"  I  thought  you  had  foi'gotten  to  come." 
"Did  you?     I  should  be  sure  not  to  forget  it." 
"  I  am  so  tired  with  my  lessons,"  she  said  irritably,  sweep- 
ing the  books  away  with  her   long  thin   fingei's.     ''lahvaj-a 
am  when  thef/  teach  me.     Mrs.  Smith  has  kept  me  at  tliem  for 
two  hours  ;  she  is  gone  dovv'u  now  to  engage  a  new  servant." 
"I  get  fi'ightfully  tired  of  my  lessons  sometimes." 
"Ah,  but  not  as  I  do;  you  can  run  about:  and  learning, 
you  know,  will  never  be  of  use  to  me.     I  want  you  to  tell 
me  something.     Is  Sophonisba  Chalk  going  to  stay  at  Lady 
Whitney's  T' 

"  1  don't  know.     Thev  will  not  be  so  very  lonir  in  town." 
••  But  I  mean  is  slie  to  be  «:overness  thei'c,  and  iro  into  the 
countiy  with  them  !■  " 
"i\.".,  I  think  not?" 

"She  wants  tn.  If  slie  does,  pajm  says  he  shall  have  some 
nice  young  lady  to  sit  with  me  and  teach  me.  Oh,  I  do  hope 
she  will  go  with  them,  and  then  the  house  would  be  rid  of 
her.  I  say  she  will:  it  is  too  good  a  chance  for  her  to  let 
Blip.  Mrs.  Smith  says  she  won't:  she  told  Mr.  Everty  so  last 
night.  He  wouldn't  believe  her,  and  was  very  cross  over  it" 
"  Cross  over  it  ?  " 


318  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

"  lie  said  Sopliouisba  onglit  not  to  have  gone  there  at  all 
vitliont  consulting  liini,  and  that  she  had  not  l)een  home  onc-c 
Biiifo,  and  oiilv  written  liini  one  rul)l)ishing  note  that  had 
uothinji;  in  it;  and  he  asked  Mrs.  Smith  whether  she  thoairht 
that  was  right." 

A  light  Hashed  over  nie.  "  Is  Miss  Chalk  to  marry  Mr. 
Everty  ? " 

"I  snppose  that's  what  it  will  come  to,"  answered  the  curi- 
ons  child.  "She  has  promised  to;  but  pi-omises  with  her 
don't  go  for  nuich  when  it  suits  her  to  bi-eak  them.  Soplio- 
uisba put  me  on  my  honour  not  to  tell;  bnt  now  that  Mr, 
Eveity  has  spoken  to  Mi"s.  Smith  and  papa,  it  is  different.  I 
saw  it  a  long  while  ago;  before  she  went  to  the  Diffords'.  1 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  and  watch  and  think,  you  see, 
Johnny  LudUnv ;  and  I  perceive  things  quicker  than  other 
people." 

"  But — why  do  you  fancy  Miss  Chalk  may  break  her 
promise  to  Mr.  Everty  ?  " 

"  If  she  meant  to  keep  it,  why  should  she  be  scheming  to  go 
awav  as  the  Vv^hitnev's  governess?  I  know  what  it  is:  Soplio- 
uis])a  does  not  think  Mr.  Everty  good  enough  for  her,  but 
she'd  like  to  keep  him  waiting  on,  for  fear  of  not  getting 
anybody  better." 

Anvthin<x  so  shrewd  as  Mabel  Smith's  manner  of  savin": 
this,  was  never  seen.  I  don't  think  she  was  naturally  ill- 
natured,  poor  thing;  but  she  evidently  thought  she  was 
beiiig  wronged  amidst  them,  and  it  made  her  spitefully  resent- 
ful. 

"  Mr.  Evertv  had  better  let  her  go.  It  is  not  I  that  would 
marry  a  wife  who  dyed  her  hair." 

"  Is  Miss  Chalk's  dyed  ?  I  thought  it  might  be  the  gold 
dust." 

"Have  y(  u  any  eyes?"  retorted  Mabel.  "AVhen  she  M-aa 
down  in  the  countiy  with  you  her  hair  was  brown  ;  it's  a 
kind  of  yellow  now.  Oh,  she  knows  how  to  set  herself  off,  I 
can  tell  you.     Do  you  happen  to  remember  who  was  rtlgning 


AT  MISS  deteek's.  819 

in  England  wlien  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartliolomew  took  j.lacc 
in  r  ranee « 

Tjie  change  of  subject  was  sncklen.  I  tokl  her  it  was 
Queen  Elizal)eth. 

"  Queen  Elizabeth,  was  it  ?  I'll  wi'ite  it  down.  Mrs.  Suiith 
says  I  shall  have  no  dessert  to-day,  if  I  don't  tell  her.  She 
puts  those  questions  only  to  vex  nie.  xVs  if  it  mattered  to 
anybody.     Oh,  here's  papa  ! " 

A  little  man  came  in  with  a  bald  head  and  pleasant  face, 
lie  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me  and  shcjok  hands.  She  put 
out  her  arms,  and  he  came  and  kissed  her :  her  eyes  followed 
him  everywhere;  her  cheeks  had  a  sudden  colour:  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  was  her  one  ij-reat  iov  in  life.  And  the 
bright  colour  made   her  poor  thin  face  look  almost  charm- 

"  I  can't  stay  a  minute,  Trottie  ;  going  out  in  a  hurry.  I 
think  I  left  my  gloves  up  here." 

"So  you  did,  papa.  There  was  a  tiny  hole  in  the  thumb 
and  I  mended  it  for  you." 

"That's  mv  little  attentive  dauirhter!  Good-bve.  Mr. 
Ludlow,  if  you  will  stay  to  dinner  we  shall  be  ha])py." 

Mrs.  Smith  came  in  as  lie  left  the  I'oom.  She  was  rather  a 
plain  likeness  of  Miss  Chalk,  not  much  older.  But  her  face 
had  a  straightforward  open  look,  and  I  liked  her.  She  made 
much  of  me,  and  said  how  kind  she  ha<l  thought  it  of  Mrs. 
Todhetlev  to  be  at  the  trouble  of  making;  a  ticlm  for  her, 
a  stranger.  She  hoped — she  did  hope,  she  added  rather 
anxiously,  that  Sophie  had  not  asked  her  to  do  it.  And  it 
struck  mc  that  Mrs.  Smith  had  not  quite  the  implicit  confi- 
dence in  Miss  Soi)hie's  sayinsrs  and  doiuij^s  that  she  mi<;h 
have  had. 

It  was  live  o'clock  when  I  got  a  vay.  At  the  door  of 
the  office  in  the  side  street  stood  a  Q-entleman — the  same  I 
bad  seen  pass  me  the  other  day.  I  looked  at  him,  and  he  at 
nie. 

"  Is  it  Roger  Monk  ?  " 


320  AT  MISS  deveen's. 

A  kind  of  startled  look  came  over  his  faee.  lie  evidently 
did  not  remember  me.     I  said  who  I  was. 

"Dear  me!  ITow  voii  have  i^-rown  !  Do  walk  in."  And 
lie  spoke  to  me  in  the  tone  an  equal  would  speak,  not  as  a 
servant. 

As  he  was  leadin^j  tlio  way  into  a  kind  of  parlour,  we 
passed  a  clerk  at  a  desk,  and  a  man  talkin<^  to  hiui. 

'•Here's  Mr.  Everrj;  he  will  tell  you,"  said  the  clerk,  in- 
dicating Monk.  "  lie  is  asking  ab:)ut  those  samples  of  pale 
brandv,  sir:  whether  thev  are  to  i^o." 

"Yes,  of  course;  von  ouii^ht  to  have  taken  them  before 
this,  AYilson,"  was  Roger  Monk's  answer.  And  so  I  saw  that 
he  was  Mr.  Everty. 

"  I  have  resumed  my  true  name,  Everty,"  he  said  to  me  in 
a  low  tone.  "The  former  tro;il)U;,  tliat  sent  mo  away  a  wan- 
derer, is  over.  Many  men,  I  beUeve,  nre  forced  into  such 
ej)isodes  in  life." 

"  Yon  are  with  Mr.  Smith  ?  " 

"These  two  years  past.  I  came  to  him  as  head  clerk;  1 
now  have  a  commission  on  sales,  and  make  a  most  excellent 
thino:  of  it.  1  d(,)n't  think  the  business  could  get  on  without 
me  now." 

"Is  it  true  that  you  are  to  marry  Miss  Chalk?"  I  asked, 
Bpcaking  ori  a  sudden  impulse, 

"  C^uite  true  ;  if  she  does  not  throw  mc  over,"  he  answered, 
anil  I  wondei-ed  at  his  candour.  "I  suppose  you  have  heard 
of  \t  indoors  I  " 

"  Yes.  I  w'sli  you  all  success." — And  didn't  I  wish  it  in 
mv  inmost  heart  ! 

"  Thank  you.  I  can  give  her  a  goo  1  home  now.  Pci'liaps 
you  will  no!  talk  abotit  that  old  time  if  yon  can  help  it,  i[r. 
Ludlow.  You  used  t(^  be  <>;<)od-n.a tared,  I  remember.  It  waj 
a  dark  page  in  my  then  reckless  life;  I  a-.n  doing  what  I  can 
to  redeem  it." 

I  daresiy  he  w.is  ;  and  I  told  him  In  need  not  fear.  But 
I  did  not  like  his  ores  yet,  in'  they  had  the  same  kind  oi 


AT   MISS    nEVEEN'S. 


321 


ahiftv  li'  '>k  that  liosrer  Monk's  used  to  have.  Tie  mij^ht  c^et 
on  none  the  worse  in  business;  for,  as  the  Squii-e  savs,  ■  t  ia 
shitty  world. 

Sophie  Chalk  ensra^TG  1  to  Mr.  Evertv,  and  he  Hotrer  Monk  I 
Weil,  it  was  a  compHcation.  I  went  back  to  Miss  Dereen's 
witli.'ut.  so  to  say,  seeino-  davh;>'ht. 


XY. 


THE    GAME    FINISHED. 

HE  tin2:-tan2^  of  the  distant  church  was  rinj^inG:  out 
fiercely  for  the  daily  morning  service,  and  Miss  Cat- 
tledou  was  picking  her  way  across  the  road  to  attend 
to  it,  with  her  thin  white  legs  displayed,  and  a 
water-proof  cloak  on.  It  had  rained  in  the  night,  but  the 
clouds  were  breaking,  promising  a  fine  day.  I  stood  at  tlie 
window,  watching  the  legs  and  thf.  pools  of  water;  Miss 
Deveen  sat  at  the  table  behind,  answering  a  letter  that  liad 
come  to  her  by  the  morning's  post. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  mine  a  peculiar  name,  Johnny  V' 
she  suddenly  asked. 

"No,"  I  said,  turning  round  to  answer  her.  "I  think  it 
a  pretty  one." 

"  It  was  originally  French :  De  Vigne :  but  like  many 
other  tilings  has  been  corrupted  with  time,  and  made  into 
what  it  is.     Is  that  ten  o'clock  strikino;  f 

Yes:  and  the  bell  was  ceasing.  Miss  Cattledon  would  be 
late.  It  was  a  regular  ])enalty  to  her,  I  knew,  to  go  out  so 
early,  and  quite  a  new  whim,  begun  in  the  middle  of  Lent. 
She  talked  a  little  in  her  vinegar  way  at  the  world's  wicked- 
ness in  not  spending  some  of  its  working  hours  inside  a 
clnu'cli,  listenino;  to  that  delightful  curate  with  the  mild 
voice,  whose  hair  had  turned  grey  prematurely.  Miss  De- 
veen, knowing  it  -was  meant  for  her,  laughed  pleasantly,  and 
said  if  the  many  years'  prayei-s  from  her  chamber  had  not 
been  heard  as  well  as  though  she  had  gone  into  a  church  to 
[3221 


THE   GAME    FEsISHED.  323 

offer  tliem  np,  slie  should  be  in  a  poor  condition  now.  I 
went  with  Miss  Cattledon  one  Monday  morning  out  of  polite- 
ness. There  were  nine-and-twenty  in  the  pews,  for  I  counted 
them;  eight-and-twenty  being  single  ladies  (to  go  by  the 
look),  some  young,  some  as  old  as  Cattledon.  The  grey- 
haired  curate  was  assisted  by  a  young  deacon,  who  had  a 
black  beard  and  a  lisp  and  his  hair  parted  down  the  middle. 
It  was  very  edifying,  especially  the  ten  minutes'  gossip  with 
the  two  clerg}nnen  coming  out,  when  we  all  congregated  in 
the  aisle  by  the  door. 

"My  great-grandfather  was  a  grand  old  proprietor  in 
France,  Johnny;  a  baron,"  continued  Miss  Deveen.  "I 
don't  think  I  have  much  of  the  French  nature  left  in  me." 

"  I  suppose  you  speak  French  well,  Miss  Deveen  ?" 

"  Not  a  word  of  it,  Johnny.  They  pretended  to  teach  it 
me  when  I  was  a  child,  but  I'm  afraid  I  was  unusually  stupid. 
Why,  who  can  this  be  ?" 

She  alluded  to  a  ring  at  the  visitors'  bell.  One  of  the  ser- 
vants  came  in  and  said  that  the  gentleman  who  had  called 
once  or  twice  before  had  come  again. 

Miss  Deveen  looked  up,  first  at  the  servant,  then  at  me. 
She  seemed  to  be  considering. 

"  I  will  see  him  in  two  or  three  minutes,  George  " — and  tho 
man  shut  the  door. 

"  Jolmny,"  she  said,  "  I  have  taken  you  partly  into  my  con- 
fidence in  this  affair  of  the  lost  studs ;  I  think  I  will  tell  you 
a  little  more.  After  I  sent  for  Lettice  Lane  here — and  my 
impression,  as  I  told  you,  was  very  strong  in  favor  of  her 
innocence — it  occurred  to  me  that  I  ought  to  see  if  anything 
could  be  done  to  prove  it ;  or  at  least  set  the  matter  at  rest, 
one  way  or  the  other,  instead  of  leaving  it  to  time  and  chance. 
The  question  was,  how  could  I  do  it  ?  I  did  not  like  to  ap- 
ply to  the  police,  lest  more  might  have  been  made  of  it  than 
I  wished.  One  day  a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  relating 
the  circumstances,  solved  the  difficulty.  He  said  he  would 
Bend  to  me  some  one  with  whom  he  was  well  acquainted,  a 


324  THE    OAJME    FINTSnED. 

Mr.  Bond,  wlic  had  once  been  connected  with  the  detective 
police,  and  v»'ho  had  got  his  dismissal  throngh  an  affair  he  was 
thought  to  have  mismanaged.  It  sounded  rather  formidable 
to  my  ears,  '  once  connected  with  the  detective  police ;'  but  I 
consented,  and  Mr.  Bond  came.  He  has  had  the  thinir  in 
hand  since  last  Fcbrnary," 

•'And  what  has  he  found  out?'' 

"Xothing,  Johnny.  Unless  he  has  come  to  tell  me  now 
that  he  has — for  it  is  he  who  is  waiting.  I  think  it  may  be 
60,  as  he  has  called  so  early.  First  of  all,  he  was  following 
lip  the  matter  down  in  AYorcestershJre,  because  the  notion  he 
entertained  was,  that  the  studs  must  have  been  taken  by  some 
one  of  the  Whitneys'  servants.  He  stayed  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, pursuing  his  inquiries  as  to  their  characters  and  habits, 
and  visiting  all  the  pawnbrokers'  shops  that  he  thought  v/ere 
at  available  distances  from  the  Hall." 

"  Did  he  think  it  was  Lcttice  Lane  ?" 

"  He  said  he  did  not ;  but  he  took  care  (as  I  happen  to 
know)  to  worm  out  all  he  conld  of  Lcttice's  antecedents  v/hile 
he  was  inquiring  about  the  rest.  I  had  the  gii-l  into  this 
room  at  his  iirst  visit,  not  alar^ning  her,  simply  saying  that  I 
was  relating  the  history  of  the  studs'  disappearance  to  this 
friend  who  had  called,  and  desired  her  to  describe  her  share 
in  it  to  make  the  story  complete.  Lettice  suspected  nothing ; 
she  told  the  tale  simply  and  naturally,  devoid  of  fear;  and 
from  that  very  moment,  Johnny,  I  have  felt  certain  in  my 
own  mind  the  girl  is  as  innocent  as  I  am.  Mr.  Bond  '  thovght 
she  might  be,'  but  he  would  not  go  beyond  that ;  for  women, 
he  said,  were  crafty,  and  knew  how  to  make  one  think  black 
was  white." 

"  ?.riss  Dsveen,  suppose,  after  all,  it  should  turn  out  to 
have  been  Lettice?"  I  asked.  "Should  you  proceed  against 
her  r 

"  T  shall  not  proceed  against  any  one,  Johnny  ;  and  I  shall 
hush  the  matter  up  if  I  can,"  she. answered,  ringing  for  Mr. 
Bond  to  be  shown  in. 


THE   GAIVIE    FINISHED.  825 

I  was  cun'oiis  to  see  liim  also  ;  ideas  floating  through  my 
brain  of  cocked  hats  and  bhie  miiform  and  Kichard  Mayne. 
Mr.  Bond  turned  out  to  be  a  very  inoffensive-looking  indi- 
vidnal  indeed ;  a  little  man,  wearing  steel  spectacles,  in  a 
black  frock-coat  and  grey  trousers. 

"  When  I  last  saw  you,  madam,"  he  began,  after  he  was 
seated,  and  Miss  Deveen  had  told  him  he  might  speak  be- 
fore me,  "  I  mentioned  that  I  had  abandoned  my  search  in  the 
country,  and  intended  to  prosecute  my  inquiries  in  London." 

"  You  did,  Mr.  Bond." 

"  That  the  theft  lay  amid  Sir  John  Whitney's  female  ser- 
vants, I  have  thought  likely  all  along,"  continued  Mr.  Bond. 
"  If  the  purloiner  felt  afraid  to  dispose  of  the  emeralds  after 
takins:  them — and  I  could  lind  no  trace  of  them  in  the  coun- 
try — the  probability  was  that  she  would  keep  them  secreted 
about  her,  and  get  rid  of  them  as  soon  as  she  came  to  London, 
if  she  were  one  of  the  maids  brought  up  by  Lady  Whitney. 
There  were  two  I  thought  in  particular  might  have  done  it ; 
one  was  the  lady's  maid  ;  the  other,  the  npper-honscinaid, 
who  had  been  ill  the  night  of  their  disappearance.  All  kinds 
of  ruses  are  played  off  in  the  pursuit  of  plunder,  as  we  have 
cause  to  learn  erery  day ;  and  it  struck  me  the  housemaid 
mi2:ht  have  feifyned  illness,  the  better  to  cover  her  actions  and 
throw  suspicion  off  herself.  I  am  bound  to  say  I  could  not 
learn  anything  against  either  of  these  two  young  women ;  but 
their  business  took  them  about  the  rooms  at  Whitney  Hall ; 
and  an  open  jewel-case  is  a  great  temptation." 

"  It  is,"  assented  Miss  Deveen.  "  That  carelessness  lay  at 
ray  door,  and  therefore  I  determined  never  to  prosecute  in 
this  case ;  never,  in  fact,  to  bring  the  offender  to  open  shame 
of  any  sort  in  regard  to  it." 

"  And  that  has  served  to  increasa  the  difficulty,"  remarked 
Mr.  Bond.  "  Could  the  women  have  been  searched  and  their 
private  places  at  Whitney  Hall  turned  out,  we  might  or 
might  not  have  found  the  emeralds ;  but " 

"  I'd  not  have  had  it  dene  for  the  Lord  Chancellor,  sir," 


326  THE   GAME    FINISHED. 

hotly  inteiTiipted  Miss  Dovcen.  "  One  was  searched,  and 
that  was  quite  enough  for  mc,  for  I  bchtn^e  her  to  be  inno- 
cent. If  you  can  get  at  the  right  person  for  me  quietly,  for 
my  own  satisfaction,  well  and  good.  My  instructions  went 
so  far  but  no  farther." 

Mr,  Bond  took  off  his  spectacles  to  ease  his  face  for  a  min- 
ute, and  put  them  on  again.  "I  understood  this  perfectly 
when  I  took  the  business  in  hand,"  he  quietly  said,  "  AVeU, 
madam,  to  go  on.  Lady  Whitney  brought  her  servants  to 
London,  and  I  came  up  also.  Last  night  I  gleaned  a  little 
light." 

He  paused,  and  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,     I  looked, 
and  Miss  Deveen  looked. 

"Should  you  know  the  studs  again  ?"  he  asked  her. 

"  You  may  as  well  ask  me  if  I  should  know  my  own  face 
in  the  glass,  Mr.  Bond.     Of  course  I  should." 

Mr.  Bond  opened  a  pill-box ;  three  green  studs  lay  in  it  on 
white  cotton,     lie  held  it  out  to  Miss  Deveen. 

"  Are  these  they  ?  " 

"No,  certainly  not,"  replied  Miss  Deveen,  speaking  like 
one  in  frightful  disappointment.  "  Those  are  not  to  be  com- 
pared to  mine,  sir." 

Mr.  Bond  put  the  bit  of  top  cotton  on,  and  the  lid  on  that, 
and  returned  them  to  his  pocket.  Out  came  another  box, 
long  and  thin. 

"  These  are  my  studs,"  quickly  exclaimed  Miss  Deveen, 
before  she  had  given  more  than  a  glance.  "  You  can  look 
for  yourself  to  the  private  marks  I  told  you  of,  Mr.  Bond." 

Three  brilliant  emeralds,  that  seemed  to  light  up  the  room, 
connected  together  on  the  inner  side  by  a  fine  chain  of  gold. 
At  either  end,  the  chain  was  finished  oif  by  a  small  thin 
square  plate  of  gold,  on  one  of  which  was  an  engraved  crest, 
on  the  other  Miss  Deveen's  initials.  In  form  the  emeralds 
looked  like  buttons  more  than  studs. 

"  I  never  knew  they  were  linked  together,  Miss  Deveen,"  1 
exclaimed  ''n  surprise. 


THE    GAME    FINISHED.  327 

"Did  jon  not,  Johnny?" 

Never.  My  mind  had  always  pictured  them  as  tl  ree  h>ose 
Binds.  Mr.  Bond,  who  no  doubt  had  the  marks  by  heart 
before  he  brought  them  up,  began  shutting  them  into  the 
box  as  lie  had  the  others. 

"Anticipating  from  the  first  that  tlie  studs  would  most 
probably  be  foimd  at  a  pawnbroker's,  if  found  at  all,  I  ven- 
tured to  speak  to  you  then  of  a  difficulty  that  might  attend 
the  finding,"  said  he  to  Miss  Deveen.  "Unless  a  thing  can 
be  proved  by  law  to  have  been  stolen,  a  pawnbroker  cannot 
be  forced  to  give  it  up.  And  I  am  under  an  engagement  to 
return  these  studs  to  the  pawnbroker,  whence  I  have  brought 
them,  in  the  course  of  the  morning." 

"  You  may  do  so,"  said  Miss  Deveen.  "  I  daresay  he  and  I 
can  come  to  an  amicable  arrangement  in  regard  to  giving 
tliem  up  later.  My  object  has  been  to  discover  who  stole 
them,  not  to  bring  trouble  or  loss  upon  pawnbrokers.  How 
did  you  discover  them,  Mr.  Bond  ? " 

"  In  rather  a  singular  manner.  Last  evening,  in  making 
my  way  to  Regent  Street  to  a  place  where  I  had  to  go  on 
business,  I  sav/  a  young  woman  turn  out  of  a  pawnbroker's 
shop,  whose  shutters  were  put  up,  but  its  doors  open.  Her 
face  struck  me  as  being  familiar ;  and  I  remembered  her  r.s 
Lady  Whitney's  housemaid — the  same  who  had  been  ill  in  bed, 
or  pretended  to  Ijc,  the  night  the  studs  were  lost.  Ah,  ha,  I 
thong! it,  some  discovery  may  be  looming.  I  have  some 
acquaintance  with  the  proprietor  of  the  shop  ;  a  very  respec- 
table man  indeed,  who  lias  got  on  to  wealth  by  dint  of  hard, 
honest  work,  and  is  a  jeweller  now  as  well  as  a  pawnbroker. 
My  own  Imsiness  could  wait,  and  I  went  in  and  found  him 
busy  with  accounts  in  his  private  room.  Lie  thought  at  first 
I  had  but  called  in  to  see  him  in  passing.  I  gave  him  no  par- 
ticulars ;  but  said  I  fancied  a  person  in  whom  I  was  interested 
professionally,  had  just  been  leaving  some  emerald  studs  in 
his  shop." 


328  THE    GAME    FIXISHED. 

"  What  is  the  pawnbroker's  name ! "  inteiTupted  Mis? 
Davecn. 

"  James.  He  went  to  inqnirc,  and  came  back,  sa^'ing  lliat 
liiB  assistant  denied  it.  There  was  only  one  assistant,  in  the 
sl.op :  the  other  had  left  for  the  night  lie,  this  assistant, 
said  that  no  person  had  been  in  during  the  last  half- hour, 
except  a  young  woman,  a  cousin  of  his  wife's ;  who  did  not 
come  to  pledge  anything,  but  simply  to  say  how  d'ye  do,  and 
to  ask  where  they  were  living  novr,  that  she  might  call  and 
see  his  wife.  Mr.  James  added  that  the  man  said  she 
occupied  a  good  situation  in  the  family  of  Sir  John  and  Lady 
"Whitney,  and  was  not  likely  to  require  to  pledge  anything. 
Plausiblt)  enough,  this,  you  see.  Miss  Deveen ;  but  the  coinci- 
dence was  sin2:ular.  I  then  told  James  that  I  had  been  in 
search  for  these  two  months  of  some  emerald  studs  lost  out  of 
Sir  John  Whitney's  house.  He  stared  a  little  at  this,  and 
asked  whether  they  were  of  unusual  value  and  very  beautiful. 
Just  so,  I  said,  and  described  them  minutely.  Mr.  James, 
without  another  word,  went  away  and  brought  the  studs  in. 
Your  studs.  Miss  Deveen." 

"  And  how  did  he  come  by  them  ? " 

"  He  won't  tell  me  much  about  it — except  that  they  took  m 
the  goods  some  weeks  ago  in  the  ordinary  course  of  business. 
The  fact  is  he  is  vexed  :  for  he  has  really  been  careful  and 
has  managed  to  avoid  these  unpleasant  episodes,  to  v.-hich  all 
pawnbrokers  arc  liable.  It  was  with  difficulty  I  could  get 
hlin  to  let  me  bring  them  up  here :  and  that  only  on  condi- 
tion that  they  should  be  in  his  hands  again  before  the  clock 
struck  twelve." 

"  You  shall  keep  faith  with  him.  But  now,  Mr.  Bond, 
what  is  your  opinion  of  this  ? " 

"  My  opinion  is  that  that  same  .young  woman  stole  the 
studs  :  and  that  she  contrived  to  get  them  conveyed  to  Lon- 
don to  this  assistant,  her  relative,  who  no  doubt  advanced 
money  upon  them.  I  cannot  see  my  way  to  any  other  con- 
clusion under  the  cii'cumstanccs,"  continued  Mi\  Bond,  firmly. 


THE   GAME    FINnSHED.  829 

"But   for   James's   turning   crusty,    I   miglit   have   learned 
more." 

"  I  will  go  to  liim  myself,"  said  Miss  Deveen,  with  sudden 
resolution.  "When  he  finds  that  my  intention  is  to  hold  his 
pocket  harmless  and  make  no  disturbance  in  any  way,  he  will 
not  be  crusty  with  me.  But  this  matter  must  be  cleared  up 
if  it  be  possible  to  clear  it." 

Miss  Deveen  M'as  not  one  to  be  slow  of  action,  once  any 
resolve  was  taken.  Mr.  Bond  made  no  attempt  to  oppose 
her  :  on  the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  think  it  might  be  well 
that  she  did  go.  She  sent  George  out  for  a  street  cab,  in  pref- 
erence to  taking  her  carriage,  and  said  I  might  accompany 
her.  We  were  off  Ions;  before  Miss  Cattledon's  conference 
with  the  curates  inside  the  church  was  over. 

The  shop  was  in  a  rather  obscure  street,  not  far  from 
Kegent  Street.  I  inquired  for  Mr.  James  at  the  private  door, 
and  he  came  out  to  the  cab.  Miss  Deveen  said  she  had  called 
to  speak  to  him  on  particular  business,  and  he  took  us  up- 
stairs to  a  handsomely-furnished  room.  lie  was  a  well-dressed, 
portly,  good-looking  man,  with  a  pleasant  face  and  quietly 
easy  mxanners.  Miss  Deveen,  bidding  him  sit  down  near  her, 
explained  the  affair  in  a  few  words,  and  asked  him  to  Itelp 
her  elucidate  it.  He  responded  to  her  frankness  at  once,  and 
said  he  would  willingly  give  all  the  aid  in  his  power. 

"  Singular  to  say,  I  took  these  studs  in  myself,"  he  ob- 
served. "  I  never  do  these  things  now,  but  my  foreman  had 
a  holiday  that  day  to  attend  a  funeral,  and  I  was  in  the  shop. 
They  were  pledged  on  the  27th  of  January :  since  Mr.  Bond 
left  this  morning  I  have  been  refen-ing  to  my  books." 

The  27th  of  January.  It  v,-as  on  the  night  of  the  23d 
that  the  studs  disappeared.  Then  the  thief  had  not  lost 
much  time  !     I  said  so. 

"  Stay  a  minute,  Johnny,"  cried  Miss  Deveen  :  "you  young 
ones  sum  up  things  too  quickly  for  me.  Let  me  trace  events 
back.  The  studs,  as  you  say,  were  lost  on  the  23d ;  the  loss 
was  discovered  on  the  24th,  and  Lettice  Lane  discharged;  on 


J')  30  THE    GAME    FIXISnED. 

the  25tli  those  of  us  staying  at  Whitney  Hall  began  to  talk  of 
leaving ;  and  on  the  2Gth  you  two  went  home  after  seeing 
Miss  Chalk  off  by  rail  to  London." 

"  And  Mrs.  Hughes  too.     They  went  up  together." 

"  AYho  is  Mrs.  Hughes  ?"  asked  Miss  Deveen. 

"  Don't  you  remember  ? — that  young  married  lady  who 
came  to  the  dance  with  the  Featherstons.  She  lives  some- 
where in  London." 

Miss  Deveen  stared  a  little.  "  I  don't  remember  any  Mj-s. 
Hughes,  Johnny." 

"  But,  dear  Miss  Deveen,  you  must  remember  her,"  I  ]">er- 
sisted.  "She  was  very  young-looking,  as  little  as  Sophie 
Chalk ;  Harry  Whitney,  dancing  with  her,  trod  off  the  tail 
of  her  thin  pink  dress.  I  heard  old  Featherston  telling  3'ou 
about  Mrs.  Hughes,  saying  it  was  a  sad  history.  Her  hus- 
band lost  his  money  after  they  were  married,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  take  a  small  situation." 

O 

Kecollection  flashed  over  Miss  Deveen.  "  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber now.  A  pale,  lady-like  little  woman  with  a  sad  face, 
lint  let  us  go  back  to  business.  You  all  left  on  the  2Gth  ;  I 
and  Miss  Cattledon  on  the  2Tth.  Now,  while  the  visitors 
were  at  the  Hall,  I  don't  think  the  upper-housemaid  could 
have  had  time  to  go  out  and  send  off  the  studs  by  rail.  Still 
less  could  she  have  come  up  herself  to  pledge  them." 

Miss  Deveen's  head  was  running  on  Mr.  Bond's  theory. 

'"  It  was  no  housemaid  that  pledged  the  studs,"  spoke  Mr. 
James. 

"  I  was  about  to  say,  Mr.  James,  that  if  3'ou  took  them  in 
yourself  over  the  counter,  they  could  not  have  been  sent  up 
to  your  assistant." 

"All  the  jjeople  about  me  are  trustworthy,  1  can  assure 
you,  ma'am,"  he  interrupted.  "  They  would  not  lend  them- 
selves to  such  a  thing.    It  was  a  lady  M'ho  pledged  those  studs." 

"  A  lady  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  a  lady.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  if  I  may  ven- 
ture to  say  it,  the  description  you  liavc  now  given  of  a  lady 
just  tallies  with  her." 


THE    GAME    FESTESHED.  331 

"Mrs.  Hacrhes?" 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,"  contimied  Mr.  James.  "  Little,  pale, 
aud  ladj-like  :  that  is  just  vrhat  she  was." 

"  Dear  me  !"  cried  Miss  Deveen,  letting  her  hands  drop  on 
her  lap  as  if  they  were  lead.  "  You  had  better  tell  me  as 
much  as  you  can  recollect,  please." 

"  It  was  at  dusk,"  said  Mr.  James.  "  Kot  quite  dark,  but 
the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  streets  and  the  gas  indoors; 
just  the  hour,  ma'am,  that  gentlefolks  choose  for  bringing 
their  things.  I  happened  to  be  standing  near  the  door,  Vv'lien 
a  lady  came  into  the  shop  and  asked  to  see  the  principal.  1 
said  I  was  he,  and  retired  behind  the  counter.  She  brought 
out  these  emerald  studs  " — touching  the  box — "  and  said  she 
wanted  to  sell  them,  or  pledge  them  for  their  utmost  vahie. 
She  told  me  a  tale,  in  apparent  coniidence,  of  a  Ijrothcr  who 
had  fallen  into  debt  at  college,  and  she  was  trying  to  get  to- 
gether some  money  to  help  him,  or  frightful  trouble  might 
come  of  it.  If  it  was  not  genuine,"  broke  off  Mr.  James, 
"  she  was  the  best  actor  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life." 

"  Please  go  on." 

'"  1  saw  tlie  emeralds  were  very  rare  and  beautifid.  She 
said  they  were  an  heirloom  from  her  mother,  who  had 
brought  the  stones  from  India  and  liad  them  linked  together 
in  England.  I  told  her  I  could  not  buy ;  she  rejoined  that  it 
might  be  better  only  to  pledge,  for  they  would  not  be  entirely 
lost  to  her  and  she  might  redeem  them  ere  twelv^e  months 
were  past  if  I  would  keep  them  as  long  as  that,  I  explained 
that  the  law  exacted  it.  The  name  she  gave  was  Mary  Drake, 
askino-  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  tlie  famous  old  forefather  of 
theirs.  Admiral  Drake.  The  name  answers  to  the  initials  on 
the  gold." 

" '  M.  D.'  They  were  engraved  for  Margaret  Deveen. 
Perhaps  she  claimed  the  crest,  also,  Mr.  James,"  added  that 
lady  sarcastically. 

"  She  did,  ma  am  ;  in  so  far  as  that  she  said  it  was  the  crest 
of  the  Drake  family." 


fi9,2  THE    OAilE    ^ES^SHED. 

"  And  you  call  her  a  lady !" 

"Slio  had  QV'cry  appearance  of  one,  in  tone  and  language 
too.  ITor  hand — she  took  one  of  her  gloves  off  wlien  show- 
mp;  the  studs — was  a  lady's  hand  ;  small,  delicate,  and  white 
as  alabaster.  Ma'am,  rely  upon  it,  though  she  roay  not  be  a 
ladv  in  deeds,  she  must  be  hvinoj  the  life  of  one." 

"  But  now,  who  was  it  ?" 

Yes,  who  was  it  ?  Miss  Devcen,  looking  at  us,  seemed  to 
wait  for  an  answer,  but  she  did  not  get  one. 

"  How  much  did  you  lend  upon  the  studs  ?" 

"  Ten  pounds.     Of  course  that  is  nothing  like  their  value." 

"  Should  you  know  her  again  ?     How  was  she  dressed  ?" 

"  She  wore  an  ordinary  Paisley  shawl ;  it  was  cold 
weather ;  and  had  a  thick  veil  over  her  face,  which  she  never 
lifted." 

"  Should  not  that  have  excited  your  suspicion  ?"  inter- 
rupted Miss  Deveen.  "  I  don't  like  people  who  keep  their 
veils  dovv'n  while  they  talk  to  you." 

The  pawnbroker  smiled.  "  Most  ladies  keep  them  down 
when  they  come  here.  As  to  knovv'ing  her  again,  I  am  quite 
certain  that  I  should  ;  and  her  voice  too.  Yf  hoever  she  was, 
slie  went  about  it  very  systematically,  and  took  me  in  com- 
pletely. Her  asking  for  the  principal  may  have  thrown  me 
somewhat  off  my  guard." 

We  came  away,  leaving  the  studs  with  Mr.  James ;  the 
time  had  not  arrived  for  Miss  Deveen  to  redeem  them.  She 
Bcemed  very  thoughtful  as  we  went  along  in  the  cab. 

"  Johnny,"  she  said,  breaking  the  silence,  "  we  talk  lightly 
enough  about  the  Finger  of  Providence ;  but  I  don't  know 
what  else  it  can  be  that  has  led  to  this  discovery  so  far.  Out 
of  the  hundreds  of  pavv-nbroking  establishments  scattered 
about  the  metropolis,  it  is  wonderfully  strange  that  this 
should  have  been  the  one  the  studs  were  taken  to;  and  fur- 
thermore, that  Pond  should  have  been  passing  it  last  night  at 
the  moment  Lady  Whitney's  housemaid  came  forth.  Had 
the  studs  been  pledged  elsewhere,  we  might  never  have  heard 


THE   GAME    FINISHED.  333 

of  them  ;  neither,  as  it  is,  but  for  the  housemaid's  being  con- 
nected with  Mr.  James's  assistant." 

Of  course  it  was  strange. 

"  You  were  surprised  to  see  the  studs  connected  together, 
Johnny.  That  was  the  point  I  mentioned  in  reference  to 
Lettice  Lane.  '  One  might  have  fallen  dovv'n,'  she  sobbed  out 
to  me,  in  leaving  "Whitney  Hall ;  '  even  two  ;  but  it's  beyond 
the  bounds  of  probability  that  three  should,  ma'am.'  She 
was  thinking  of  the  studs  as  separate  studs ;  and  it  convinced 
me  that  she  had  never  seen  them.  True,  an  artful  woman 
might  say  so  purposely  to  deceive  me,  but  I  am  sure  that 
Lettice  has  not  the  art  for  it.  But  now,  Johnny,  we  nmst 
consider  what  steps  to  take  next.  I  shall  not  rest  until  the 
matter  is  cleared." 

"  Suppose  it  should  never  get  on  any  further  !  " 

"  Suppose  you  are  like  a  young  bear,  all  your  experience  to 
come?"  retorted  Miss  Deveen.  "Why,  Johnny  Ludlow,  do 
you  think  that  when  that  Finger  I  ventured  to  speak  of  is 
directing  a  course  onwards,  that  it  halts  midway?  There 
cannot,  I  fear,  be  much  doubt  as  to  the  thief ;  but  we  must 
get  i^roof." 

"  You  think  it  was " 

"  Mrs.  Hughes.  How  can  I  think  else  ?  She  is  very  nice, 
and  I  could  not  have  believed  it  of  her.  I  suppose  the  sight 
of  the  jewels,  combined  with  her  state  of  poverty,  must  have 
proved  the  temptation.  I  shall  get  back  the  emeralds,  but 
we  must  screen  her." 

"  Miss  Deveen,  I  don't  believe  it  was  Mrs.  Hughes." 

"Kot  beheve  it !" 

"  JSTo.  Her  face  is  not  that  of  one  who  would  do  such  a 
thing.     You  might  trust  it  anywhere." 

"  Oh,  Johnny  !  there  you  are  at  your  faces  again  !" 

"  AYell,  I  never  was  deceived  in  any  face  yet.  Not  in  one 
that  I  tliorouglihj  trusted." 

"  If  Mrs.  Hughes  did  not  take  the  studs,  and  bring  them 
to  London,  and  pledge  them,  who  else  could  have  brought 


334  THE    GAME    FDflSHED. 

them  ?  They  were  taken  to  Mr.  James's  on  the  27th,  re- 
member." 

"  That's  the  puzzle  of  it." 

'•We  must  lincl  out  Mrs.  Ilughes,  and  then  contrive  to 
bring  licr  within  sight  of  Islr.  James." 

"  The  Whitnejs  know  whore  she  Kves.  Anna  and  Helen 
have  been  to  call  upon  her." 

"  Then  our  way  is  pretty  plain.  Mind  you  don't  breathe  a 
syllable  of  this  to  mortal  ear,  Johnny.  It  might  defeat  ends. 
Miss  Cattledon,  alwa^'s  inquisitive,  will  question  where  we 
have  been  this  morning  with  her  curious  eyes;  but  for  once 
she  will  not  get  satisfied." 

"  I  should  not  keep  her,  Miss  Deveen." 

"  Yes  you  would,  Johnny.  She  is  faithful ;  she  suits  m 
very  well ;  and  her  mother  and  I  were  girls  together." 


ft  was  a  sight  to  be  painted.  Helen  "Whitney  standing 
there  in  her  presentation  dress.  Oh,  she  looked  well.  It 
was  all  white,  with  a  train  behind  longer  than  three  peacocks' 
tails,  lace  and  feathers  hanging  from  her  hair.  The  whole  lot 
of  us  were  round  her ;  the  young  ones  had  come  from  the 
nursery,  the  servants  peeped  in  at  the  door ;  Miss  Cattledon 
had  her  eye-glass  up  ;  Harry  danced. 

"  Helen,  my  dear,  I  admire  all  very  much  except  your  neck- 
lace and  bracelets,"  said  Miss  Deveen,  critically.  "  They  do 
not  match :  and  do  not  accord  with  the  dress." 

The  necklace  was  a  row  of  turquoise  beads,  it  did  not  look 
much  :  the  bracelets  were  gold  with  blue  stones  in  the  clasps. 
The  Whitney  family  did  not  shine  in  jewels,  and  the  few 
diamonds  they  possessed  were  on  Lady  AVhitncy  to-day. 

"  But  I  had  nothing  else.  Miss  Deveen,"  said  Helen, 
simply.     "  Mamma  said  these  must  do." 

]\[iss  Deveen  took  off  the  string  of  bine  beads  as  if  to  ex- 
amine them,  and  loft  in  its  place  the  most  beautiful  pearl 


TIIE   0AM:E    riNTSHED.  3.13 

necklace  ever  seen.     There  was  a  scream  of  snrpiise  ;  some  ol 
us  had  only  met  with  such  transformations  in  fairy  tales. 

"  And  these  are  the  bracelets  to  match,  my  dear.  Anna,  I 
shall  give  you  the  same  when  your  turn  for  making  yom*  cm't- 
sey  to  your  queen  comes." 

Anna  smiled  faintly  as  she  looked  her  thanks.  She  always 
seemed  regularly  down  in  spirits  now,  not  to  be  raised  by 
pearl  necklaces.  For  the  first  time  her  sad  countenance 
seemed  to  strike  Tod.     He  crossed  over. 

"  What  is  amiss,  Anna  ?"  he  whispered.  "  Are  you  not 
well?" 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  her  cheeks  flush- 
ing painfully. 

At  this  moment  Sophie  Chalk  created  a  diversion.  Unable 
to  restrain  her  feelings  longer,  she  burst  into  tears,  knelt 
down  outside  Helen's  dress,  and  began  kissing  her  hand  and 
its  pearl  bracelet  in  a  transport  of  glad  joy. 

"  Oh,  Helen,  my  dear  friend,  how  rejoiced  I  am  ?  I  said 
up-stairs  that  your  ornaments  were  not  worthy  of  you." 

Tod's  eyes  were  glued  to  her.  Bill  Whitney  called  out 
Bravo.  Sophie,  kneeling  before  Helen  in  her  court  furbe- 
lows, made  a  charming  tableau. 

"  It  is  good  acting.  Tod,"  I  said  in  his  ear. 

He  turned  sharply.  But  instead  of  cuffing  me  into  nexi 
week,  he  just  sent  his  eyes  straight  out  to  mine. 

"  Do  you  call  it  acting  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  it  is.     But  not  for  you." 

"  You  are  bold,  Mr.  Johnny." 

But  i  could  tell  by  the  subdued  tone  and  the  subdued  man- 
ner, that  his  o^vn  doubts  had  been  at  last  awakened  whether 
or  not  it  was  acting. 

Lady  Whitney  came  sailing  down-stairs,  a  blaze  of  yellow 
satin  ;  her  face,  with  flurry,  like  a  peony  in  full  bloom.  She 
could  hardly  say  a  word  of  thanks  for  the  pearls,  for  her  wits 
were  gone  a  woolgathering.  When  she  was  last  at  Court  lier- 
self,  Bill  was  a  baby  in  long-clothes.     We  went  out  with  tliem 


33G  THE    GAME    FINISnED.  ' 

to  tlic  carriage,  the  lot  of  us ;  the  lady's  mnid  talcing  at  least  six 
minutes  to  settle  the  trains  :  and  Bill  said  he  hoped  the  eyes 
at  the  windows  all  round  enjoyed  the  show.  The  postilion — ■ 
an  unusual  sight  in  London — and  the  two  men  behind  v.'ore 
their  state  liveries  of  white  and  crimson ;  the  bouquets  iu 
th(  ir  breasts  being  bigger  than  full-blown  cabb:iges. 

"  You  vv'ill  dance  with  me  the  lirst  dance  to-night  ?"  Tod 
whispered  to  Sophie  Clialk,  as  they  were  going  in  after 
w  atching  the  carriage  away. 

Sophie  made  a  slight  pause  for  consideration,  before  she 
answered  ;  and  I  saw  her  eyes  wander  out  in  the  distance  to- 
wards Bill  Whitney. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  great  display  of  grati- 
tude.    "  But  I  tliink  I  am  engaged." 

"  Enjicao-ed  for  the  first  dance  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Tlie  second,  then  ?" 

"  "With  the  greatest  pleasure." 

Anna  heard  it  all  as  well  as  I.  Tod  gave  Sophie's  hand  a 
eqnceze  to  close  the  bargain,  and  went  away  whistling. 

Not  being  in  the  world  of  fashion,  we  did  not  know  how 
other  people  finished  up  drawing-room  days  (and  when  Helen 
Whitney  went  to  Court  they  were  drawing-rooms),  but  the 
Whitney's  programme  was  this  :  A  cold  collation  in  view  of 
a  dinnci-,  when  Fate  should  bring  them  home  again,  and  a 
ball  in  the  evening.  The  ball  was  our  joint  invention.  Sit- 
tiuir  round  the  school-room  fire  one  nifrht  we  settled  it  for 
ourselves :  and  after  Sir  John  and  my  lady  had  stood  out 
well,  they  gave  in.  Not  that  it  would  be  much  a  ball,  for 
they  had  but  few  acquaintances  in  London,  and  the  house 
was  small. 

But  now,  luvl  any  aid  been  wanted  by  Miss  Deveen  to  carry 
out  her  plans,  she  could  not  have  devised  better  than  this. 
For  the  Whitueys  invited  (all  unconsciously)  Mrs.  Hughes  to 
the  ball.  Anna  came  in  to  Miss  Deveen's  after  they  had  been 
Bending  out  the  invitations  (only  three  days  before  the  even- 


THE   GAME    FESriSHED.  337 

m.n^),  and  began  telling  lier  the  names  as  a  slice  of  gossip. 
Sbe  came  to  Mrs.  Hnglies.  "  Mrs.  Iliiglics,"  intcrrnptcd  Miss 
Doveen,  "  I  am  glad  of  that,  Anna,  for  I  want  to  sec  her." 

Miss  Deveen's  seeing  her  would  not  go  for  much  in  the 
matter  of  elucidation  ;  it  was  Mr.  James  v/ho  must  see  her ; 
and  the  plan  by  which  he  might  do  so  was  entirely  Miss  De- 
veen's own.  She  went  down  and  arranged  it  Vv^ith  liini,  and 
before  the  night  came,  it  was  all  cut  and  dried.  lie  and  she 
and  I  huGW  of  it ;  not  another  soul  in  the  world. 

"  You  v/ill  have  to  help  me  in  it  a  little,  Johnny,"  she  said. 
"  Be  at  hand  to  look  out  for  Mr.  James's  arrival,  and  bring 
him  up  to  me." 

"We  saw  them  come  back  from  the  drawing-room  between 
five  and  six,  Helen  with  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks  ;  and  at 
eight  o'clock  we  went  in.  London  parties,  which  begin  when 
you  ought  to  be  in  your  first  sleep,  are  not  understood  by  us 
country  people,  and  eight  was  the  hour  named  in  the  Whit- 
ney's invitations.  Cattledon  was  screwed  into  a  rich  sea- 
green  satin  (somebody  else's  once),  with  a  water-lily  in  her 
thin  hair ;  and  Miss  Deveen  wore  all  her  diamonds.  Sir 
John,  out  of  his  element  and  frightfully  disconsolate,  stood 
against  the  wall,  his  spectacles  lodged  on  his  old  red  nose. 
The  thing  was  not  in  his  lino.  Miss  Deveen  went  up  to 
shake  hands. 

'•  Sir  John,  I  am  rather  expecting  a  gentleman  to  call  on  me 
on  business  to-night,"  she  said  ;  "  and  have  left  word  for  him 
to  step  in  and  see  me  here.    Will  you  pardon  the  liberty  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  it's  no  liberty ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  him," 
replied  Sir  John,  dismally.  "There'll  be  not  much  here  but 
ijtupid  boys  and  girls.  We  shall  get  no  Vv^hist  to-night.  The 
plague  only  knows  Vvdio  invented  balls." 

It  vras  a  little  odd  that,  next  to  us,  Mrs.  Hughes  should  be 
the  Urst  to  arrive.  She  was  very  pale  and  pretty,  and  her 
husband  was  a  slender,  quiet,  delicate  man,  looking  like  a 
finished  gentleman.  Miss  Deveen  followed  them  with  her 
eyes  as  they  went  up  to  Lady  Whitney. 


338  THE   GAilE    FCaSHED. 

"  She  does  not  look  like  it,  does  slie,  Johnny  ?"  whimpered 
Miss  Deveen.     ISio,  I  was  quite  sure  she  did  not. 

Sophie  Chalk  was  in  white,  with  ivy  leaves  in  her  spangled 
hair,  the  sweetest  fairy  (to  look  at)  ever  seen  out  of  a  moon- 
light ring.  Helen,  in  her  Court  dress  and  pearls,  look  plain 
hesidi3  her.  They  stood  talking  together,  not  noticing  that  I 
and  Tod  were  in  the  recess  behind.  The  people  had  mostly 
come  then,  and  the  music  Vv'as  throwing  out  Hts  and  starts. 
The  I'oonis  looked  well ;  the  flowers,  scattered  about  tlicm, 
had  come  up  from  Whitney  Hall.  Helen  called  to  her 
brother. 

"  V/e  may  as  well  begin  dancing,  William." 

"  Of  coui-se  we  may,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  know  what 
we  have  waited  for.  I  must  get  a  partner.  Miss  Chalk,  may 
I  have  the  honor  of  dancing  the  first  dance  with  you  ?" 

That  Miss  Chalk's  eyes  went  up  to  his  with  a  flash  of 
gratitude,  and  then  dov»'n  in  modesty  to  the  chalked  floor,  I 
knew  as  Vv-cll  as  though  they  had  been  behind  her  head  in- 
stead of  before. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  be  so  happy."  And  1 
no  more  dared  glance  at  Tod  than  if  he  had  been  a  springing 
crocodile.     She  ha,d  told  hhn  she  was  engaged  for  it. 

But  just  as  \Villiam  was  about  to  give  her  his  arm,  and 
somebody  came  and  took  away  Helen,  Lady  Whitney  called 
him.  He  spoke  with  his  mother  for  a  minute  or  two  and 
came  back  with  a  cloud  on  his  face. 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry,  Sophie.  The  mother  says  I  must 
take  out  Lady  Esther  Starr  this  first  time,  old  Starr's  wife, 
you  know,  as  my  father  s  dancing  days  are  over.  I-ady 
Estlicr  is  seven-and-thirty  if  she's  a  day,"  growled  Bill,  •'  and 
as  big  as  a  light-house.  I'll  have  the  second  with  you, 
Sophie." 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  engaged  for  the  second,"  hesitated 
Miss  Sophie.     "I  think  I  hive  promised  Joseph  Todlietley." 

"  Xever  mind  him,"  said  Bill.  "  You'll  dance  it  with  me, 
mind." 


THE   GAME    FINISHED.  339 

"  1  can  tell  liim  I  mistook  the  dance,"  slie  Boftly  suggested. 

"  Tell  liim  anything.     All  right." 

He  wheeled  round,  and  went  np  to  Lady  Esther,  putting 
on  his  glove.  Sophie  Chalk  moved  away,  and  I  took  the 
courage  to  glance  sideways  at  Tod. 

Ills  face  was  as  white  as  death  :  I  think  with  passion.  Ho 
stood  ^vith  his  arms  folded,  never  moving  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  quadrille,  only  looking  out  straight  before  him 
with  a  fixed  stare.  A  waltz  came  next,  for  which  they  kept 
their  partners.  And  Sophie  Chalk  had  enjoyed  the  luck  of 
sitting  down  all  the  time.  When  they  were  making  ready 
for  the  second  quadrille,  Tod  went  up  to  her. 

''  This  is  our  dance,  Miss  Chalk." 

"Well,  she  had  her  share  of  brass.  She  looked  steadily  in 
his  face,  assuring  him  that  he  was  mistaken,  and  vowing 
throup-h  thick  and  th.in  that  it  was  the  third  dance  she  had 
promised  to  him.  While  she  was  excusing  herself.  Bill  came 
up  to  claim  her.     Tod  put  out  his  strong  arm  to  vv'ard  him  off. 

"  Stay  a  moment,  Whitney,"  he  said,  with  studied  calmness, 
"  let  me  have  an  understanding  first  with  Miss  Chalk.  She 
can  dance  with  you  afterwards  if  she  prefers  to.  Miss  Chalk, 
you  know  that  you  promised  yourself  to  me  this  morning  for 
the  second  dance.  I  asked  you  for  the  lirst :  you  Avere  en- 
gaged for  that,  you  said,  and  would  dance  Vv^ith  me  the 
second.  There  could  be  no  mistake,  on  your  side  or  on 
mine." 

"  Oh,  but  indeed  I  understood  it  to  be  the  third,  dear  Mr. 
Todhetley,"  she  said.  "  I  am  dreadfully  sorry  if  it  is  my 
fauk.     I  will  dance  the  third  with  you." 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  for  the  third.  Do  as  you  please. 
H  you  throw  me  over  for  this  second  dance,  I  will  never  ask 
you  for  another  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

Bill  Whitney  stood  by  lauglyng ;  seeming  to  treat  the 
whole  as  a  good  joke.  Sophie  Chalk  looked  at  him  appeal- 
ingly. 

"And  you  ceitainly  promised  me,  Miss  Chalk,"  he  put  in. 


340  THE    GAME    FINISnED. 

"  Todlietlej,  It  is  a  complication.     You  and  I  had  better  draw 
friendly  lots." 

Tod  bit  liis  lip  nearly  to  bleeding.  All  the  notice  he  took 
of  Bill's  speech  was  to  turn  his  back  upon  him,  and  address 
Sophie. 

"  The  decision  lies  with  you  alone,  Miss  Chalk.  You  have 
engaged  yourself  to  liiui  and  to  rae  ;  choose  between  us." 

She  put  her  hand  within  Bill's  arm,  and  went  away  with 
him,  leaving  a  little  honeyed  flattery  for  Tod.  But  Bill 
Whitney  looked  back  curiously  into  Tod's  white  face,  all  his 
lightness  gone  ;  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  realize  that  it 
was  serious,  nearly  an  affair  of  life  or  death.  His  handker- 
chief up,  wiping  his  damp  brow.  Tod  did  not  notice  Vvliich 
way  he  was  going,  and  ran  against  Anna.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don, child,"  he  said,  with  a  start,  as  if  waking  out  of  a  dream. 
"  Will  you  go  through  this  dance  with  me,  Anna  ?" 

Yes.  He  led  her  up  to  it ;  and  they  took  their  places 
0]>posite  to  Bill  and  Miss  Chalk. 

Mr.  James  was  to  arrive  at  half-past  nine.  I  was  waiting 
for  him  near  the  entrance  door.  He  was  punctual  to  time  ; 
and  looked  very  well  in  his  evening  dress.  I  took  him  up  to 
Miss  Deveen  ;  she  made  room  for  him  on  the  sofa  by  her 
side,  her  diamonds  glistening.  He  must  have  seen  their 
value.  Sir  John  had  his  rubber  then  in  the  little  i)roakfast- 
parlor  ;  Miss  Cattledon,  Old  Starr,  and  another  making  it  up 
for  him.  Wanting  to  see  the  play  played  out,  I  kept  by  the 
sofa. 

This  was  not  the  dancing-room :  but  they  came  into  it 
between  the  dances  in  couples,  to  march  around  in  the  cooler 
air.  Mr.  James  looked  and  Mit?s  Deveen  looked  ;  and  I  con- 
fess that  whenever  Mrs.  Hughes  passed  us,  I  felt  queer. 
Miss  Deveen  suddenly  arrested  her,  and  kept  her  talking  for 
a  minute  or  two.  Not  a  word  bearing  upon  the  si;ciet  sub- 
ject said  Mr.  James.  Once  when  the  room  was  clear  and  the 
measured  tread  could  be  heard  to  the  tune  of  one  of  the  best 
waltzes  ever  imagined  by  Strauss,  Lady  Whitn3y  approached.. 


THE   GAME    FINISHED.  341 

Catcliing  sight  of  the  strange  gentleman  by  Miss  Deveen,  she 
supposed  he  liad  been  brought  by  some  of  the  guests,  and 
came  up  to  make  his  acquaintance. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,  dear  Lady  "Whitney,"  said  Misa 
Deve  on. 

Lady  "Whitney,  never  observing  that  no  name  was  men- 
tioned, shook  hands  at  once  with  Mr.  James  in  her  homely 
country  fashion.     He  stood  up  until  she  had  moved  away. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Miss  Deveen  to  him,  when  the  dancers  v/ere 
coming  in  again.     "  Is  the  lady  here  ?" 

"  Yes." 

I  had  expected  him  to  say  no,  and  could  have  struck  him 
for  destroying  my  faith  in  Mrs.  Hughes.  She  was  passing  at 
the  same  moment. 

"  Do  you  see  her  now  ?"  whispered  Miss  Deveen. 

"ISTot  now.     She  was  at  the  door  a  moment  ago." 

"Not  now!"  exclaimed  Miss  Deveen,  staring  at  Mrs. 
Hughes.     "  Is  it  not  that  lady  ?" 

Mr.  James  sent  his  eyes  in  half  a  dozen  directions  at  once. 

"  Which  lady,  ma'am  ?" 
"  The  one  who  has  just  passed  in  black  silk,  with  the  sim- 
ple white  net  quilling  round  the  neck." 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !"  said  Mr.  James.  "  I  never  saw  that  lady 
in  my  life  before.     The  lady,  the  lady,  is  dressed  in  white." 

Miss  Deveen  looked  at  him,  and  I  looked.  Here^  in  the 
rooms,  and  yet  not  Mrs.  Hughes  ! 

"  This  is  the  one,"  he  whispered,  "  coming  in  now." 

The  one  turning  in  at  that  particular  instant,  was  Sophie 
Chalk.  But  others  were  before  her  and  behind  her.  She  was 
on  Harry  Whitney's  arm. 

*'  Why  don't  you  dance.  Miss  Deveen  ?"  asked  bold  Harry, 
halting  before  the  sofa. 

"  Will  you  dance  with  me,  Master  Harry  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.     Glad  to  get  you." 

"  Don't  you  tell  fibs,  young  man.  I  might  take  you  at 
your  word,  if  I  had  my  dancing  shoes  on." 


842  THE    GAilE    FINISHED. 

Harrj  laughed.  Soi^liie  Chalk's  blue  eyes  happened  to  rest 
on  Mr.  James's  face ;  they  took  a  puzzled  expression,  as  if 
^Tondcring  where  she  had  seen  it.  Mr.  James  rose  and 
bowed  to  her.  She  must  have  recognized  him  then,  for  her 
features  turned  a  livid  white,  in  spite  of  the  powder  that 
covered  them. 

"Who  is  it,  Johnny?"  she  whispered,  in  lier  confusion, 
loosing  Harry's  arm  and  coming  behind. 

•'  Well,  you  must  ask  that  of  Miss  Deveen.  He  has  como 
Iiere  to  see  her :  something's  up,  I  fancy,  about  those  emerald 
Btuds." 

Had  it  been  to  save  my  fortune,  I  could  not  have  helped 
Baying  it.  I  saw  it  all  as  in  a  mirror.  She  it  was  wlio  had 
taken  them,  and  pledged  them  afterwards.  The  same  light 
flached  on  Miss  Deveen.  She  followed  her  with  her  severe 
face,  her  condemning  eyes. 

"  Take  care,  Johnny !"  cried  Miss  Deveen. 

I  was  just  in  time  to  catch  Sophie  Chalk.  She  would  have 
fallen  on  my  shoulder.  The  room  was  in  a  commotion  at 
once  :  a  young  lady  had  fainted.  Fainted  !  What  from  ? 
asked  everybody.  Oh,  from  the  heat,  of  course.  And  no 
other  clue  was  breathed. 

Mr.  James's  mission  was  over.  It  had  been  successful.  Ho 
made  a  bow  to  Lady  Whitney,  and  withdrew. 


Miss  Deveen  sent  in  for  Sophie  Chalk  the  next  day,  and 
they  had  it  out  together,  shut  up  alone.  Sophie's  coolness  was 
good  for  any  amount  of  denial,  but  it  failed  here.  And  then 
she  took  the  other  course,  and  fell  on  her  knees  at  Miss  De- 
veen's  feet,  and  told  a  pitiable  story  of  being  alone  in  the 
world,  without  money  to  dress  herself,  and  the  open  jewel- 
casket  in  Miss  Deveen's  chamber  (into  which  accident,  not 
design,  had  reaj^y  taken  her)  proving  too  much  in  the 
moment's  temp't^?**^.  Miss  Deveen  believed  it;  she  told 
lier  the  affair  should  never  transpii'e  beyond  the  two  or  thi*ee 


THE   GAME    FESTISnED.  343 

who  ali'eady  kinjw  it ;  that  she  would  redeem  the  emeralds 
herself,  and  say  nothing  even  to  Lady  TVbitney;  but,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  Miss  Chalk  must  close  her  acquaintance  with 
Sir  John's  family. 

And,  singular  to  say,  Sophie  received  a  letter  from  some- 
body that  same  evening,  inviting  her  to  go  out  of  tovni.  At 
least,  she  said  she  did. 

So,  the  quitting  the  "Wliitneys  suddenly  was  smoothly 
accounted  for ;  and  Helen  "Whitney  did  not  know  the  truth 
for  many  a  day. 

What  did  Tod  think  ?  For  that,  I  expect,  is  what  you  are 
all  wantin.q;  to  ask.  That  was  another  cmious  thins; — that  he 
and  Bill  Whitney  should  have  come  to  an  explanation  before 
the  ball  was  over.  Bill  went  up  to  him,  saying  that  had  he 
supposed  Tod  could  mean  anything  serious  in  his  admiration 
of  Sophie  Chalk,  he  should  never  have  gone  in  for  admiratior 
of  her  himself,  even  in  idleness ;  and  certainly  would  not  con 
tinue  to  do  so  or  spoil  sport  again. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  answered  Tod,  with  indiffer- 
ence. "  You  are  quite  welcome  to  go  in  for  Sophie  Chalk  in 
any  way  you  please.     Zhave  done  with  her." 

"  Xo,"  said  Bill,  '*  good  girls  must  get  scarcer  than  they 
are  before  I  should  go  in  seriously  for  Sophie  Chalk.  She's 
all  very  well  to  talk  and  laugh  with,  and  she  is  uncommonly 
fascinating." 

It  was  my  tm'u  to  put  in  a  word  then.  "  As  I  told  you, 
Bill,  months  ago,  Sophie  Chalk  would  fascinate  the  hair  off 
your  head,  give  her  the  chance." 

Bill  laughed.  "  "Well,  she  has  had  the  chance,  Johnny : 
but  she  has  not  done  it." 

Altogether,  Sophie,  thanks  to  her  own  bad  play,  had  fallen 
to  a  discount. 

When  Miss  Deveen  announced  to  the  world  that  she  had 
found  her  emerald  studs  (lost  through  an  accident,  she  discov- 
ered, and  recovered  in  the  same  way)  people  were  full  of 
"wonder  at  the  chances  and  mistakes  of  life     Lettice  Laite 


344  THE   GAME    FINISHED. 

was  clcfirccl  triumphantly.  Miss  Devcen  sent  her  liome  for  a 
week  to  shake  hands  with  her  friends  and  enemies,  and  then 
took  her  back  as  her  ovv'ii  maid. 

And  the  only  person  I  said  a  syllable  to  was  Anna.  T 
knew  it  would  be  safe ;  and  I  dare  say  you  would  have  done 
the  same  in  my  place.  But  she  stopped  me  at  the  middle  of 
the  first  sentence. 

"  I  have  known  it  from  the  first,  Johnny ;  I  was  nearly  as 
sure  of  it  as  sure  could  be  ;  and  it  is  that  that  has  made  me 
so  miserable." 

"Knovvm  it  was  Sophie  Chalk?" 

"As  good  as  knovv'u  it.  There  was  no  proof,  only  suspic- 
ion. And  I  could  not  see  whether  I  ought  to  speak  of  the 
suspicion  even  to  mamma,  or  to  keep  it  to  myself.  As 
things  have  turned  out,  I  am  very  thankful  to  have  beer 
silent." 

"  How  was  it,  then  ?" 

"  That  night  at  "Whitney  Hall,  after  they  had  all  come 
down  from  dressing,  mamma  sent  me  up  to  William's  room 
with  a  message.  As  I  was  leaving  it — it  is  at  the  end  of  tlie 
long  corridor,  you  know — I  saw  some  one  peep  cautiously  out 
of  Miss  Cattledon's  chamber,  and  then  steal  up  the  back  stairs. 
It  was  Sophie  Chalk.  Later,  when  we  were  going  to  bed, 
and  I  was  quite  undressed,  Helen,  who  was  in  bed,  espied 
Sophie's  comb  and  brush  on  the  table, — for  she  had  dresscc' 
in  our  room  because  of  the  large  glass, — and  told  me  to  run 
in  with  them  :  she  only  slept  in  the  next  room.  It  was  very 
cold.  I  knocked  and  entered  so  sharply  that  the  door-bolt,  a 
thin,  creaky  old  thing,  gave  way.  Of  course  I  begged  her 
pardon ;  but  she  seemed  to  start  up  in  a  terrible  fear  as  if  I 
had  been  a  ghost.  She  had  not  touched  her  hair,  but  sat  in 
lier  shawl,  sewing  at  her  stays;  and  she  let  them  drop  on 
the  carpet  and  threw  a  petticoat  upon  them.  I  thought 
nothing,  Johnny;  nothing  at  all.  But  the  next  morning 
when  the  commotion  arose  that  the  studs  were  missing,  I 
coidd  not  hel])  recalling  all  this;  and  I  quite  hated  myself 


THE    GAME    FESTISHED. 


345 


for  lliinldng  Sophie  Chalk  might  have  been  taking  them 
wJi<;n  she  stole  out  of  Miss  Cattledon's  room,  and  was  sewing 
them  later  into  her  stays." 

"  You  thought  right,  you  see." 

"  Johnny,  I  am  very  sorry  for  her.  I  wish  we  could  help 
her  to  some  good  situation.  Dcj^end  upon  it,  this  will  be  a 
lesson  :  she  will  never  so  far  forg-et  herself  acfain." 

"  She  is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  Anna.  Don't 
let  it  trouble  you.     I  dare  say  she  will  marry  Mr.  Everty." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Everty?" 

"Some   one  who   is  engaged  in   the  wine  business  with 
Sophie  Chalk's  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Sixdth." 
16* 


XYI. 


GOmG    TO    THE    MOP. 

i)'  ^     NEVEE  went  to  St.  John's  mop  in  my  life,"  said 

"  Mrs.  Todhctley. 

"That's  no   reason  why  you  never  sliould  go," 
returned  the  Squire. 

"  And  never  thought  of  engaging  a  servant  at  one." 

"  There  are  as  good  servants  to  be  picked  up  in  a  mop  as 
out  of  it ;  and  you  get  a  great  deal  better  choice, "  said  he. 
"  My  mother  has  hired  many  a  man  and  maid  at  the  mop  : 
first-rate  servants  too." 

"  Well,  then,  perhaps  we  had  better  go  into  Worcester  to- 
morrow, and  see,"  concluded  she,  rather  dubiously. 

"And  start  early,"  said  the  Squire.  "What  is  it  you  are 
afraid  off  he  added,  catching  at  her  doubtful  tone.  "  That 
good   servants   don't   put   themselves  into   the   mop   to   be 

hired  ?" 

"Not  of  that,"  she  answered.  "I  know  it  is  the  only 
chance  farm-liouse  servants  have  of  getting  hired  when  they 
want  to  change  their  places.  It  was  the  noise  and  crowd  I 
was  thinking  of." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  returned  the  Pater.     "  It  is  not  half 

as  bad  as  the  fair." 

Mrs.  Todlietlcy  stood  at  the  parlow  window  of  Dyke  Manor, 
the  autunni  sun,  setting  in  a  glow,  tinging  her  face  and  show- 
ing its  thoughtful  expression.  The  Squire  was  in  his  easy- 
chair,  looking  at  one  of  the  Worcester  newspapei-s. 

There  had  been  a  bother  lately  about  the  dairy-work.     The 


GOrXG    TO   THE   MOP.  347 

old  dairy-maid,  four  years  in  the  service,  had  left  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  two  otheis  had  been  tried  since,  and  neither  gaited. 
The  lust  of  them  had  marched  herself  off  that  day,  after  a 
desperate  quarrel  with  Molly ;  the  house  was  pretty  nearly  at 
its  wits  end  in  consequence,  and  perhaps  the  two  cows  were. 
Mrs.  Todhetley,  really  not  knovdng  what  in  the  world  to  do, 
and  freti- ng  herself  into  the  face-ache  over  it,  was  broken  in 
upon  l)y  \,h3  Pater  and  his  newspaper.  He  had  just  read  in 
it  the  reminder  that  St.  John's  annual  Michaelmas  Mop 
would  talvb  place  on  the  morrow :  and  he  told  Mrs.  Todhetley 
that  she  co\Jd  go  there  and  hire  a  dairy-maid  at  will.  Fifty 
if  she  wantftd  them.  At  that  time  the  mop  was  as  much  of 
an  institution  us  the  fair  or  the  wake.  Some  people  called  it 
the  Statute  lair. 

Molly,  whore  sweet  temper  you  have  had  a  ghrapse  or  two 
of  before,  banged  about  among  her  simoons  and  saucepans 
■whon  she  heard  what  was  in  the  wind.  "  Fine  muck  it  'ud 
be,"  she  said,  "  coming  out  o'  that  there  Worcester  mop." 
Haviug  the  dairy-work  to  do  as  well  as  her  own  just  now,  the 
house  hardly  held  her. 

We  breakfasted  early  the  next  morning  and  started  betimes 
in  the  large  open  carriage,  the  Squire  driving  his  pair  of  line 
horses,  Bob  and  Blister.  Mrs.  Todhetley  sat  with  him,  and  I 
beliind.  Tod  might  have  gone  if  he  would :  but  the  long 
drive  out  and  home  had  no  charms  for  him,  and  he  said  ironi- 
cally he  should  like  to  see  himself  attending  the  mop.  It 
was  a  lovely  morning,  bright  and  siuiny,  with  a  suspicion  of 
crispness  in  the  air :  the  trees  were  putting  on  their  autumn 
colors,  and  shoals  of  blackberries  shone  in  the  hedges. 

Getting  some  refreshment  again  at  Worcester,  and  lea%-ing 
the  Squire  at  the  hotel,  I  and  Mrs.  Todhetley  walked  to  the 
mop.  It  was  held  in  the  parish  of  St.  John's — which,  as  all 
the  country  knows,  is  a  suburb  of  Worcester  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Severn.  Crossing  the  bridge  jiud  getting  well  up  the 
"Ne-.v  Road,  we  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  fun. 

The  men  were  first,  standing  back  in  a  line  on  the  foot- 


348  Gomo  TO  the  mop. 

patli,  fronting  tJie  passers-by.  Young  rustics  mostly,  in  clean 
smock-frocks,  waiting  to  be  looked  at  and  questioned  and 
liircd,  a  broad  grin  on  their  faces  with  the  novelty  of  the  sit- 
uation. We  passed  them  ;  and  came  to  the  girls  and  women- 
You  could  tell  they  were  nearly  all  rustic  servants  too,  by 
their  high  colors  and  awkward  looks  and  manners.  As  a 
rule,  each  held  a  thick  cotton  umbrella,  tied  round  the  middle 
after  the  fashion  of  Mrs.  Gamp's,  and  a  pair  of  pattens  whose 
bright  rings  showed  they  had  not  been  in  use  that  day.  To 
judge  by  the  look  of  the  present  weather,  we  were  not  likely 
to  have  rain  for  a  mont)i :  but  these  simple  jDCople  likod  to 
guard  against  contingencies.  Crowds  of  follvs  were  passing 
along  like  ourselves,  some  come  to  hire,  some  only  to  take  up 
the  road  and  stare. 

Mrs.  Todhetley  elbowed  her  way  amidst  them.  So  did  I. 
She  spoke  to  one  or  two,  but  nothing  came  of  it.  Whom 
should  we  come  upon,  to  my  intense  surprise,  but  our  dairy- 
maid— the  one  who  had  betaken  herself  off  the  previous  day  ! 

"  I  hope  you  will  get  a  better  place  than  you  had  with  me, 
Susan,"  said  the  Mater,  i-ather  sarcastically. 

"  I  hopes  as  how  I  shall,  missis,"  was  the  insolent  retort. 
"  'Twon't  be  hard  to  do,  any  way,  that  won't,  with  that  there 
overbearing  Molly  in  your'n." 

We  went  on.  A  great  hulking  farmer,  as  big  a  giant,  and 
looking  as  though  he  had  taken  more  than  was  good  for  him 
in  the  morning,  came  lumbering  along,  pushing  everybody 
right  and  left.     He  threw  his  bold  eyes  on  one  of  the  girls. 

"  What  place  be  for  you,  my  lass  ?" 

"  None  of  yours,  master,"  was  the  j)rompt  reply. 

The  voice  was  good-natured  and  pleasant,  and  I  looked  at 
the  girl  as  the  man  went  shouldering  on.  She  wore  a  clean 
light  cotton  gown,  a  smart  shawl  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
and  a  straw  bonnet  that  could  not  be  seen  for  sky-blue  bows. 
Her  face  was  fairer  than  most  of  the  faces  around ;  her  eyes 
were  ^f  the  color  of  her  ribbons  ;  and  her  mouth,  rather  wide 
and  always  smiling,  had  about  the  nicest  set  of  teeth  I  evei 


GOmG   10    THE   MOP.  349 

saw.  To  taLe  likes  and  dislikes  at  first  sight  without  rhyme 
or  reason,  is  wliat  I  am  hopelessly  given  to,  and  there's  no 
help  for  it.  People  laugh  mockingly :  as  yon  have  heard  me 
say.  "  There  goes  Johnny  with  his  fancies  again  !"  tlioy  cry : 
bnt  I  know  that  it  has  served  me  well  through  life.  I  took  a 
liking  to  the  girl's  face :  it  was  an  honest  face,  as  full  of 
t  riiles  as  the  bonnet  was  of  bows.  Mrs.  Todhetley  noticed  her 
too,  and  halted.     The  girl  dropped  a  curtsey. 

"  What  place  are  you  seeking  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Dairy-maid's,  please,  ma'am." 

The  good  Mater  stood,  dubious  whether  to  pursue  inquiries 
or  to  pass  onwards.  She  liked  the  face  of  the  girl,  but  did 
not  like  the  profusion  of  blue  ribbons. 

"  I  understand  my  work  well,  ma'am,  please  ;  and  I'm  not 
afraid  of  any  much  of  it,  in  reason." 

This  turned  the  scale.  Mrs.  Todhetley  stood  her  ground 
and  plunged  into  the  proper  questioning. 

"  Where  have  you  been  living  ?" 

"  At  Mr.  Thorpe's  farm,  please,  near  Severn  Stoke." 

"  For  how  lono;  ?" 

"  Twelve  months,  j)lease.  I  went  there  Old  Michaelmas 
Day,  last  year." 

"  Why  are  you  leaving  ?" 

"  Please,  ma'am" a  j)ause  here "  please,  I  wanted  a 

change,  and  the  work  was  a  great  sight  of  it ;  frightful 
heavy  ;  and  missis  often  cross.  Quite  a  herd  o'  milkers, 
there  was,  there." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Grizzel  Clay.  I  be  healthy  and  strong,  please,  ma'am ; 
and  I  was  twenty-two  in  the  summer." 

"  Can  you  have  a  character  from  Mrs.  Thorpe  ?" 

"  Yes,  please,  ma'am,  and  a  good  one.  She  can't  say  noth- 
ing against  me." 

And  so  the  queries  went  on  ;  one  would  have  thought  tlio 
Mater  was  hiring  a  whole  regiment  of  soldiers.  Grizzel  was 
ready  and  willing  to  enter  on  her  place  at  once,  if  hired 


300  GOING   TO   THE    MOP. 

Mrs.  Thc.rpe  was  in  Worcester  that  day,  and  might  be  seen  at 
the  Hare  and  Hounds  inn. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Johnny  ?"  whispered  the  Mater. 

"  I  should  hire  lier.  Slie's  just  the  girl  I'd  not  mind  tak- 
ing without  any  character." 

"  With  those  blue  bows  !  Don't  be  simple,  Johnny.  Still 
I  like  the  girl,  and  may  as  well  see  Mrs.  Thorpe." 

''By  the  way,  though,"  she  added,  turning  to  Grizzel, 
"  what  wages  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Eight  pounds,  please,  ma'am,"  replied  Grizzel,  after  some 
hesitation,  and  with  reddenino;  cheeks. 

"Eight  pounds!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Todbetley.  "That's 
very  high." 

"  But  you'll  find  me  a  good  servant,  ma'am." 

We  went  back  through  the  town  to  the  Hare  and  Hounds, 
an  inn  near  the  cathedral.  Mrs.  Thorpe,  a  substantial  dame 
in  a  long  cloth  skirt  and  black  hat,  by  which  we  saw  she  had 
come  in  on  horse-back,  was  at  dinner. 

She  gave  Grizzel  Clay  a  good  character.  Saying  the  girl 
was  honest,  clean,  hardworking,  and  very  sweet-tempered; 
and,  in  truth,  she  was  rather  sorry  to  part  with  her.  Mrs. 
Todhetley  asked  about  the  blue  bows.  Ay,  Mrs.  Thorpe  said, 
that  was  Grizzel  Clay's  great  fault — a  love  of  finery  :  and  she 
recommended  Mrs.  Todhetley  to  " keep  lu3r  under"  in  that 
respect.  In  going  out  we  found  Grizzel  waiting  under  the  arch- 
way, having  come  down  to  learn  her  fate.  Mrs.  Todhetley  said 
t?he  should  engage  her,  and  bade  her  follow  us  to  the  hotel. 

"  It's  an  excellent  character,  Johnny,"  she  said,  as  we  went 
along  the  street.  "  I  hke  everything  about  the  girl,  except 
the  blue  ribl)ons." 

"  I  don'c  see  any  liarm  in  blue  ribbons.  A  girl  looks  nicer 
in  ribbons  than  Avithout." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  the  Mater.  "  And  this  girl  is  good- 
looking  enough  to  do  without  them.  Johnny,  if  Mr.  Tod- 
hetley has  no  objection,  I  think  we  had  better  take  her  back 
iu  the  carriage.     You  won't  mind  her  sitting  with  you  2" 


GOING    TO   THE    MOP.  351 

"  'Not  I.     And  I'm  sure  I  shall  not  mind  the  ribbons." 

So  it  wa.3)  arranged.  The  girl  was  engaged,  to  go  back 
with  us  in  the  afternoon.  Her  box  would  be  sent  by  the  car- 
rier. She  presented  herself  at  the  Star  at  the  time  of  starting 
with  a  small  bundle :  and  a  little  birdcage,  something  like  a 
mouse-trap,  that  had  a  bird  in  it. 

"  Could  I  be  let  take  it,  ma'am  ?"  she  asked  of  Mrs.  Tod- 
hetlej.  "  It's  only  a  poor  linnet  that  I  found  hurt  on  the 
ground  the  last  morning  I  went  out  to  help  milk  Thorpe's 
cows.     I'm  a-trying,  please,  to  nurse  it  back  to  health." 

"  Take  it,  and  welcome,"  cried  the  Squire.  "  The  bird  had 
better  die,  though,  than  be  kept  to  live  in  that  cage." 

"  I  was  thinking  to  let  it  fly,  please,  sir,  when  it's  strong 
again." 

Grizzel  had  proper  notions.  She  screwed  herself  into  the 
corner  of  the  seat,  so  as  not  to  touch  me.  I  heard  all  about 
her  as  we  went  along. 

She  had  gone  to  live  at  her  Uncle  Clay's  in  Gloucestershire 
when  her  mother  died,  working  for  them  as  a  servant.  The 
uncle  was  "  well-to-do,"  rented  twenty  acres  of  land,  and  had 
two  cows  and  some  sheep  and  pigs  of  his  own.  The  aunt 
had  a  nephew,  and  this  young  man  wanted  to  court  her. 
Grizzel ;  but  she'd  have  nothing  to  say  to  him.  It  made 
matters  uncomfortable,  and  last  year  they  turned  her  out :  so 
she  went  and  hired  herself  at  Mrs.  Thorpe's. 

"  Well,  I  should  have  thought  you  had  better  be  married 
and  have  a  home  of  your  own  than  go  out  as  dairy-maid, 
Grizzel." 

"  That  depends  upon  who  the  husband  is,  sir,"  she  said, 
laughing  slightly.  "  I'd  rather  be  a  dairy-maid  to  the  end  o' 
my  days — I'd  rather  be  a  prisoner  in  a  cage  like  this  poor 
bird — than  have  anything  to  say  to  that  there  nephew  of 
aunt's.     He  had  red  hair,  and  I  can't  abide  it." 


Grizzel  proved  to  be  a  good  servant,  and  became  a  great 


352  GOING   TO   THE    MOP. 

favorite  in  tlio  lioiise,  except  with  Molly.  Molly,  nevei 
takiug  to  her  kindly,  was  for  quarreling  ten  times  a  day, 
but  the  girl  only  laughed  back  again.  She  was  superior 
to  the  general  run  of  dairy-maids,  both  in  looks  and  man- 
ners :  and  her  good-humored  face  brought  sweethearts  up  in 
j^lenty. 

Two  of  them  were  serious.  The  one  was  George  Ttopcr, 
bailiff's  man  on  a  neighboring  farm ;  the  other  was  Sandy 
Lett,  a  wheelwright  in  business  for  himself  at  Chhrch 
Dj'kcly.  Of  course  matters  ran  in  this  case,  as  they  gener- 
ally do  run  in  such  cases,  all  cross  and  contrary  :  or,  as  the 
French  say,  d  tort  et  d  travers.  George  Roper,  a  good-look- 
ing young  fellow  with  curly  hair  and  a  handsome  pair  of 
black  whiskers,  had  not  a  coin  beyond  the  weekly  stipend  he 
worked  for :  he  had  not  so  much  as  a  chair  to  sit  in,  or  a 
turn-up  bedstead  to  lie  on ;  yet  Grizzel  loved  him  v/ltli  her 
whole  heart.  Sandy  Lett,  who  was  not  bad-looking  either, 
and  had  a  good  home  and  a  good  business,  she  did  not  care 
for.  Of  course  the  difficulty  lay  in  deciding  which  of  the 
two  to  choose :  ambition  and  her  friends  recommended  Sandy 
Lett ;  imprudence  and  her  own  heart,  George  Roper.  Like 
the  donkey  between  the  two  bundles  of  ha}'-,  Grizzel  was 
totally  unable  to  decide  on  either,  and  kept  both  the  swains 
on  the  tenter-hooks  of  suspense. 

Sunday  afternoons  were  the  great  trouble  of  Grizzel's  life. 
Roper  had  holiday  then,  and  came  ;  and  Lett,  whose  time 
was  his  own,  though  of  course  he  could  not  afford  to  waste  it 
on  a  week-day,  also  came.  One  would  stand  at  the  style  in 
one  licld,  the  other  at  a  style  in  another  field  :  and  Grizzel, 
arrayed  in  one  of  the  light  print  gowns  she  favored,  the 
many-colored  shawl,  and  the  dangerous  blue-ribbon  bonnet, 
did  not  dare  to  go  out  to  either,  lest  the  other  should  pounce 
upon  his  rival,  and  a  fight  ensue.  It  was  getting  quite  excit- 
ing in  the  household  to  watch  the  progress  of  events.  The 
spring  passed,  the  summer  came  round  ;  and  between  the  two, 


GOING   TO   THE    MOP.  353 

Gri/zel  had  lier  hands  full.  The  other  servants  could  not 
imao'ine  what  the  men  saw  in  her. 

"  It  is  those  blue  ribbons  she's  so  fond  of !  "  said  Mrs.  Tod- 
betley  to  us  two,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  doubted  them  from  the 
first." 

"  I  should  say  it  is  the  blue  eyes,"  dissented  Tod. 

"  And  I  the  white  teeth  and  laughing  face.  Nobody  can 
help  liking  her." 

"  You  shut  up,  Johnny.     If  I  were  Eoper " 

"  Shut  up  yom-self,  Joseph :  both  of  you  shut  up  :  you 
know  nothing  about  it,"  intermpted  the  Scpiire,  who  had 
seemed  to  be  asleep  in  his  chair.  "  It  comes  of  woman's 
coquetry  and  man's  folly.  As  to  these  two  fellows,  if  Grizzel 
can't  make  up  her  mind,  I'll  warn  them  both  to  keep  oft  my 
grounds  at  their  peril." 

One  evening  during  the  midsummer  holidays,  in  bounding 
out  of  the  oak-walk  to  cross  the  fold-yard,  I  came  upon 
Grizzel  leaning  on  the  gate.  She  had  a  bunch  of  sweet  peas 
in  her  hand,  and  tears  in  her  eyes.  George  Roper,  who  must 
have  been  talking  to  her,  passed  me  qmckly,  touching  his  hat. 

"  Good  evening,  sir." 

"  Good  evening,  Eoper." 

He  walked  away  "s\dth  his  firm,  quick  stride  ;  a  well-made, 
handsome,  and  trustworthy  fellow.  His  brown  velveteen 
coat  (an  old  one  of  his  master's)  was  shabby,  but  he  looked 
well  in  it;  and  his  gaitered  legs  were  straight  and  strong. 
That  he  had  been  the  donor  of  the  sweet  peas,  a  rustic  lover's 
favorite  offering,  was  evident.  Grizzel  attempted  to  hide 
them  inside  her  go^vn  when  she  saw  me,  but  was  not  quick 
enough,  so  she  was  fain  to  hold  them  in  her  hand  openly,  and 
make  beUeve  to  be  busy  with  her  tin  milk-pail. 

"  It's  a  drop  of  skim  milk  I've  got  over ;  I  was  goi  ig  to 
take  it  to  the  pigs,"  said  she. 

"  "What  are  you  cr)dng  about  ?" 

"  Me  crying !"  returned  Griazel.  "  It's  the  red  sun  a 
Bhinin'  in  my  eyes,  sir." 


354  GOING   TO   THE    MOP. 

Was  it !  "  Look  here,  Grizzel,  why  don't  you  put  an 
end  to  this  state  of  bother?  You  won't  be  able  to  milk  the 
cows  next." 

"  'Taint  any  in'ard  bother  o'  that  sort  as  '11  keep  me  from 
doing  my  proper  work,"  returned  she,  with  a  flick  to  the 
handle  of  the  can. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  can't  marry  two  men :  you  would  be 
taken  up  by  old  Jones  the  constable,  you  know,  and  tried  for 
bigamy.  And  I'm  sure  you  must  keep  tlie7)%  on  the  ferment. 
George  Roper's  gone  olf  with  a  queer  look  on  his  face.  Take 
him,  or  dismiss  him." 

"  I'd  take  -him  to-morrow,  but  for  one  thing,"  avowed  the 
girl  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  His  short  wages,  I  suppose, — sixteen  shillings  a  week." 

"  Sixteen  shillings  a  week  sliort  wages !"  echoed  Grizzel. 
"  I  call  'em  good  wages,  sir.  I'd  never  be  afraid  of  getting 
along  on  them  with  a  steady  man, — and  Hoper's  that.  It 
ain't  the  wages,  Master  Johnny.  It  is  that  I  promised 
mother  never  to  begin  life  upon  less  than  a  cottage  and  some 
things  in  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Poor  mother  was  a-dying,  sir.  Her  illness  lasted  her 
many  a  week,  and  she  might  be  said  to  be  a-dying  all  the 
time.  I  was  eighteen  then.  '  Grizzy,'  says  she  to  me  one 
night,  '  you  l)e  a  likely  girl  and  '11  get  chose  afore  you  be 
many  summers  older.  13nr  you  must  j^romise  me  that  you'll 
not,  on  no  tcmjitation  whatsoever,  say  yes  to  a  man  till  he  has 
got  a  home  of  his  own  to  take  yon  to,  and  beds  and  tables  and 
thin<rs  comfortable  about  him.     Once  bei>;in  without  'cm,  and 


t->  - 


you  and  him  'II  spend  all  yonr  after-life  looking  out  for  'em  ; 
but  they'll  not  come  any  the  more  for  that.  And  you'll  be 
at  six'3s  and  sevens  always:  and  liim,  why  perhaps  he'll 
take  to  the  beer-shop, — for  many  a  man  does,  through  liav- 
ing,  so  to  say,  no  home.  I've  seen  the  ill  of  it  in  my  days,' 
bIio  says,  '  and  if  I  thought  you'd  tumble  into  it  I'd  hardly 
rest  quiet  in  the  grave  where  you  be  so  soon  a-going  to  place 


GOESTG   TO   THE    MOP.  355 

me.'  '  Be  at  ease,  mother,'  says  I  to  her  in  answer,  '  and 
take  my  promise,  which  I'll  never  break,  not  to  set-up  for 
marriage  without  a  home  o'  my  own  and  proper  things  in  it.' 
That  promise  I  can't  break.  Master  Johnny  ;  and  there  has 
laid  the  root  of  the  trouble  all  along." 

I  saw  then.  Roper  had  nothing  but  a  lodging,  not  a  stick 
or  stone  that  he  could  call  his.  And  the  foolish  man,  instead 
of  saving  up  out  of  his  wages,  spent  the  remnant  in  buying 
pretty  things  for  Grizzel.     It  was  a  hopeless  case. 

"  You  should  never  have  had  anything  to  say  to  Hoper, 
knowing  this,  Grizzel." 

Grizzel  twirled  the  sweet  peas  round  and  round  in  her 
fingers,  and  looked  foolish,  answering  nothing. 

"Lett  has  a  good  home  to  give  you  and  means  to  keep  it 
going.  He  must  make  a  couple  of  pounds  a  week.  Perliaps 
more." 

"But  then  I  don't  care  for  him.  Master  Johnny." 

"  Give  him  up  then.     Send  him  about  his  business." 

One  would  have  thought  she  was  counting  the  blossoms  on 
the  sweet-j)ea  stalks.  Presently  she  spoke,  without  looking 
up. 

"  You  see.  Master  Johnny,  one  does  not  like  to — to  lose  all 
one's  chances,  and  grow  into  an  old  maid.  And,  if  I  can''t 
have  Roper,  perhaps, — in  time — I  might  bring  myself  to  take 
Lett.  It's  a  better  opportunity  than  a  poor  dairy-maid  like 
me  could  ever  ha'  looked  for." 

The  cat  was  out  of  the  bag.  Grizzel  was  keej^ing  Lett  on 
for  a  remote  contingency.  When  she  could  make  up  her 
mind  to  say  No  to  Roper,  she  meant  to  say  Yes  to  him. 

"  It  is  awful  treachery  to  Roper  ;  keeping  him  on  only  to 
drop  him  at  last,"  ran  my  thoughts.  "  AY  ere  I  he,  I  should 
give  her  a  good  shaking,  and  leave " 

A  sudden  movement  on  Grizzel's  part  nearly  startled  me. 
Catching  up  her  can,  she  darted  across  the  yard  by  the  pond 
as  fast  as  her  pattens  would  go,  poured  the  milk  into  the 
pig's  trough  with  a  dash,  and  disappeared  in-doors.     Looking 


856  CfOINO   TO   THE    MOP. 

round  for  any  possible  causo  for  tliis,  I  caiiglit  Bight  of  a 
man  in  ligli'  fustian  clothes  hovering  about  in  the  near  field 
by  the  hay-ricks.  It  was  Sandy  Lett ;  he  had  walked  over  on 
the  chance  of  getting  to  see  her.  But  she  did  not  come  out 
again. 

The  next  move  in  the  drama  Vv'as  made  by  Lett.  The  fol- 
lowing Monday  he  presented  himself  before  the  Squire, — 
dressed  in  his  Sundaj^-going  things,  and  a  new  hat  on, — to 
ask  him  to  be  so  good  as  to  settle  the  matter,  for  it  was  "  get- 
ting a'most  beyond  him." 

"  Why,  hov/  can  1  settle  it  ?"  demanded  the  Squire. 
"  What  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"  It's  a  tormenting  of  me  pretty  nigh  into  fiddle-strings," 
pleaded  Lett.  "  What  with  her  caprices — for  sometimes  her 
sj)caks  to  me  as  pleasant  as  a  angel,  while  at  others  her  won't 
speak  nohow ;  and  what  with  dratted  folk  over  yonder  a-teas- 
ing  of  me " — ^jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Church 
Dykely — "  I  don't  get  no  peace  of  my  life.  It  is  a  shame, 
Squire,  for  any  woman  to  treat  a  man  as  she's  a-treating 
me." 

"I  can't  make  her  have  .you  if  she  won't  have  you"  ex- 
ploded the  Squire,  not  liking  the  appeal.  "  It  is  said,  you 
know,  that  she  would  rather  have  Roper." 

Sandy  Lett,  who  had  a  great  idea  of  his  own  merits,  turned 
his  nose  into  the  air.  "  Beg  pardon.  Squire,"  he  said,  "  but 
that  won't  wash,  that  won't.  Grizzel  couldn't  have  nothing 
serious  to  say  to  that  there  Roper ;  nought  but  a  day-laborer 
on  a  farm  ;  she  couldnH :  and  if  he  don't  keep  his  distance 
from  her,  I'll  wring  his  ugly  head  round  for  him.  Look  at  me 
beside  him  ! — at  my  good  home  wi'  its  m'hogany  furniture 
in't.  I  can  keep  her  a'most  like  a  lady.  She  may  have  in  a 
wench  once  a  week  for  the  washing  and  scrubbing,  it'  she 
likes ;  I'd  not  deny  her  nothing  in  reason.  And  for  that 
there  Roper  to  think  to  put  hisself  in  atween  us!  No; 
'twon't  do ;  the  moon's  not  made  o'  green  cheese.  Grizzel'a 
a  bit  light-L,iaj'ted,  sir;  fond  o'  chatter;  and  Roper  he've 


GOING   TO   THE    MOP.  357 

played  upon  tliat.     But  if  you'd  speak  a  word  for  me,  Squire, 
so  as  I  ma}  have  tlie  banns  put  up " 

"  "VVTiat  the  deuce,  Lett,  do  you  suppose  I  have  to  do  with 
ray  women  servants  and  their  baims  T  testily  interrupted  the 
Squire.  "  I  can't  interfere  to  make  her  marry  you.  But  I'll 
tell  you  thus  much,  and  her  too ;  if  there  is  to  be  this  perpet 
ual  ujDroar  about  Grizzel,  she  shall  quit  my  house  before  the 
twelvemonth  she  engaged  herself  for  is  up.  And  that's  a 
disgrace  for  any  young  woman." 

So  Sand}^  Lett  got  nothing  by  coming,  poor  unfortunate 
man.  And  yet — in  a  sense  he  did.  The  Squire  ordered  the 
girl  before  him,  and  told  her  in  a  sharp,  decisive  tone  that  she 
must  either  put  an  end  to  the  state  of  things — or  leave  his 
service.  And  Grizzel,  finding  that  the  limit  of  toleration  had 
come,  but  unable  in  her  conflicting  difiiculties  of  mind  to 
decide  which  of  the  swains  to  retain  and  whicli  discard,  dis- 
missed the  two.  After  that  she  was  plunged  over  head  and 
ears  in  distress,  and  for  a  week  could  not  see  to  skim  off  the 
cream  for  her  tears. 

"  This  comes  of  hiring  dairy  wenches  at  a  statty  fair !" 
cried  wrathful  Molly. 


The  summer  went  on.  August  was  waning.  One  morning 
that  ]\Ir.  Duffham  had  called  in  and  was  helping  Mrs.  Tod- 
hetley  to  give  Lena  a  spoonful  of  jam  (with  a  powder  in  it), 
at  which  Lena  kicked  and  screamed,  Grizzel  ran  into  the 
room  in  excitement  so  great,  that  they  thought  she  was  going 
into  a  fit. 

"  Why,  wliat  is  it  ?"  questioned  Mrs.  Todhetley,  putting  a 
temporary  truce  to  the  jam  hositilities.  "  Has  either  of  the 
cc>  ,rs  kicked  you  down,  Grizzel  ?" 

"I'm — I'm  come  into  a  fortin !"  shrieked  Grizzel  hysteri- 
c^^lly,  laughing  and  crying  in  the  same  breath. 

Mr.  Dufiiham  pu  t  her  into  a  chair,  angrily  ordering  her  to 
be  calm, — for  anger  is  the  best  remedy  in  the  world  to  apply 


358  GOESTG   TO   THE    MOP. 

to  hysterics — and  took  a  leter  from  her  that  she  held  out.  *< 
told  lier  tha":  her  uncle  Clay  was  dead,  and  had  left  her  ^  be- 
quest of  forty  pounds.  The  forty  pounds  to  be  paid  to  her 
in  gold  whenever  she  should  go  and  apply  for  it.  This  h  tter 
had  come  by  the  morning's  post :  but  Grizzel,  busy  in  her 
dairy,  had  only  just  now  opened  it, 

"  For  the  poor  old  uncle  to  have  died  in  June,  and  them 
never  to  ha'  let  me  hear  on't !"  she  said  sobbing.  "  Just  like 
'em  !  And  me  never  to  hav^e  put  on  a  bit  o'  mourning  for 
him ! " 

She  rose  from  the  chair,  drying  her  eyes  with  lier  apron, 
and  held  out  her  hand  for  the  letter.  As  Mrs.  Todhetley 
began  to  say  she  was  very  glad  to  hear  of  her  good  luck,  a 
shy  look  and  a  half-smile  came  into  the  girl's  face. 

"  I  can  get  the  home  now,  ma'am,  w^th  all  this  fortin,"  she 
softly  wliispered. 

Molly  banged  her  pans  about  worse  than  ever,  partly  in 
envy  at  the  good  luck  of  the  girl,  partly  because  she  had  to  do 
the  dairy  work  during  Grizzel's  absence  in  Gloucestcrshiro : 
a  day  and  a  half,  v/hich  was  given  her  by  Mrs.  Todhetley. 

"  There  won't  be  no  standing  a  nigh  her  and  her  linery 
now,"  cried  rampant  Molly  to  the  servants.  "  She'll  tack 
her  blue  ribbons  on  to  her  tail  as  well  as  her  head.  Lucky  if 
the  dairy  some  tine  day  ain't  found  turned  all  sour  !'' 

Grizzel  came  back  in  time ;  bringing  her  forty  pounds  in 
gold  wrapped-up  at  the  foot  of  a  folded  stocking.  The  girl 
had  as  much  sense  as  here  and  there  one,  and  a  dav  or  two 
after  her  arrival  she  asked  leave  to  speak  to  her  mistress.  It 
was  to  say  that  she  should  like  to  leave  at  the  end  of  her  year, 
Michaelmas,  if  her  mistress  would  please  look  out  for  some 
one  to  replace  her. 

"  And  what  are  3'ou  going  to  do,  Grizzel,  when  you  do 
leave  ?     What  are  your  plans  ?" 

Grizzel  turned  the  co'or  of  a  whole  corutield  of  poppies, 
and  confessed  that  she  was  going  to  be  married  to  George 
E.oj)er. 


GOING   TO    THE    MOP.  359 

"  Oil,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetley.  But  she  had  nothing  to  urge 
against  it. 

"  And  please,  ma'am,"  cried  Grizzel,  the  poppies  deepen- 
ing and  glowing,  "  we'd  like  to  make  bold  to  ask  if  the  mas- 
ter would  let  to  us  that  bit  of  a  cottage  that  the  Claytons 
have  went  out  of." 

The  Mater  was  quite  taken  aback.  It  seemed  indeed  that 
Grizzel  had  been  laying  her  plans  to  some  purpose. 

"  It  have  got  a  nice  piece  o'  ground  to  grow  pertaters  and 
garden  stuff,  and  it  have  got  a  pigsty,"  said  Grizzel.  "  Please 
ma'am,  vv-e  shall  get  along  famous,  if  we  can  have  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  set  up  a  pig,  Grizzel  ?" 

Grizzel's  face  was  all  one  smile  Of  course  they  did. 
"With  such  a  fortune  as  she  had  come  into,  she  intended  her- 
self and  her  husband  to  have  everything  good  about  them, 
including  a  pig. 

"  I'll  give  Grizzel  away,"  wrote  Tod  when  he  heard  the 
news  of  the  legacy  and  the  projected  marriage.  "  It  will  be 
fun !  And  if  you  people  at  home  don't  present  her  with  her 
wedding  gown  it  will  be  a  stingy  shame.  Let  it  have  a  good 
share  of  blue  bows." 

"  No,  though,  will  he  !"  exclaimed  Grizzel  vdtli  sparkling 
eyes,  when  told  of  the  honor  designed  her  by  Tod.  "  Give 
lie  away  !  Him !  I've  always  said  there's  not  such  another 
gentleman  in  these  parts  as  Mr.  Joseph." 

The  banns  were  put  up,  and  matters  progressed  smoothly_, 
with  one  solitary  exception.  When  Sandy  Lett  heard  of  the 
treason  going  on  behind  his  back,  he  was  ready  to  drop  with 
blighted  love  and  mortiiication.  A  three-days'  weather  blight 
was  nothing  to  his.  Quite  forgetting  modesty,  he  made  his 
fierce  way  into  the  house,  wiJiout  saying  with  your  leave  or 
by  your  leave,  and  thence  to  the  dairj  where  Grizzel  stood 
making  up  butter,  startling  the  girl  so  much  with  his  white 
face  and  wild  eyes  that  she  stepped  back  into  a  pan  of  cream. 
Then  he  enlarged  upon  her  iniquity,  and  wound  up  by  assur- 
ing her  that  neither  she  nor  her  "  coward  of  a  Roper  "  coidd 


300  GOmO   TO   THE    MOP.  — 

ever  cofiic  to  good.     After  that,  he  let  her  alone,  making  do 
furtlier  stii*. 

Grizzcl  quitted  the  Miinor  and  went  into  the  cottage, 
"U'hicli  the  Squire  had  agreed  to  let  to  them ;  Roper  was  to 
come  to  it  on  the  wedding-day,  A  daughter  of  Goody 
Picker's,  one  Mary  Standish  (whose  husband  had  a  habit  of 
going  off  on  i->ving  trips  and  staying  in  them  until  found  and 
brouglit  back  hy  the  parish),  stayed  with  Grizzel,  helping  her 
to  got  the  cottitge  in  habitable  order,  and  arrange  in  it  the 
articles  she  bou,vht.  That  sura  of  forty  pounds  seemed  to  be 
doing  wonders  ;  I  told  Grizzel  I  could  not  have  made  a  thou- 
sand go  as  far. 

"  \uy  left,  M.ioter  Johnny,  why  of  course  I  shall  have 
plenty  left,"  she  said.  "After  buying  the  bed  and  the  set  o' 
drawei.i  and  the  chairs  and  tables;  and  the  pots  and  pans  and 
crockeryware  for  the  Icitchen ;  and  the  pig  and  a  cock  and 
hen  or  two ;  and  providing  a  joint  of  roast  pork  and  some 
best  tea  and  wliite  sugar  for  the  wedding  day,  we  shall  still 
have  pounds  and  pounds  on't  left.  'Tisn't  me,  sir,  nor 
George  neither,  that  'ud  like  to  lavish  away  all  we've  got  and 
])ut  none  by  for  a  rainy  day." 

"  All  right,  Grizzel.     I  am  going  to  give  you  a  tea-caddy." 

"  Well  now,  to  think  of  that,  Master  Johnny  !  "  she  said, 
lifting  her  hands.  "And  after  the  mistress  giving  me  such 
a  handsome  gownd  ! — and  the  servants  clubbing  together,  and 
bi"in;''inij:;  a  ro;istin<j:  oven  and  beautiful  set  o'  flat  irons. 
Itoper  and  me  Ml  l)e  set  up  like  a  king  and  queen." 

On  Saturday,  the  day  before  that  lixed  for  the  wedding,  I 
and  Tud  were  passing  the  cottage — a  kind  of  miniature  barn, 
to  look  at,  with  a  t]i;itchcd  roof,  and  a  broken  grindstone  at 
the  dour — and  wcnl:  in  ;  rather  to  the  discomiiture  of  Grizzel 
and  j\Irs.  Standis!i,  who  had  their  petticoats  short  and  their 
arms  bare,  scouring  and  scrubbing  and  making  ready  for  the 
morrow.  Returning  across  the  lields  later,  we  saAV  Grizzel  at 
the  door,  gazing  out  all  wa_ys  at  once. 

"  Consuliing  the  stars  as  to  whether  it  will  be  hue  to-moj'-. 


GOING   TO   THE    MOP.  361 

row,  Grizzel?"  cried  Tod,  who  was  never  at  a  loss  fcr  a  ready 
word. 

"  I  was  a-looking  out  for  Mary  Standisli,  sir,"  she  said. 
"  George  Roper  haven't  been  here  to-night,  and  vre  be  all  at 
donbtings  about  several  matters  he  was  to  have  come  in  to 
settle.  First  he  said  he'd  go  on  betimes  to  the  church  o'  Sun- 
day morning ;  then  he  said  he'd  come  here  and  we'd  all  walk 
together :  and  it  was  left  at  a  uncertainty.  There's  the  black- 
berry pie,  too,  that  he've  not  brought." 

"  The  blackberry  pie !  "  said  I. 

"  One  tbat  Mrs.  Dodd,  where  he  lodges,  have  made  a  pres- 
ent of  to  us  for  dinner.  Master  Johnny.  Roper  was  to  ha' 
brought  it  in  to-night  ready.  It  won't  look  well  to  see  him 
carrying  of  a  baked-pie  on  a  Sunday  morning,  wlien  he've 
got  on  his  wedding  coat.  I  can't  think  where  he  have  got 
to!" 

At  this  moment,  some  one  was  seen  moviDg  tovcards  us 
across  the  field  path.  It  proved  to  be  Mary  Standish ;  l\er 
gown  turned  up  over  her  head,  and  a  pie  in  her  hands  the 
size  of  a  pulpit  canopy.  Red  syrup  vras  running  down  the 
outside  of  the  disli,  and  the  crust  looked  a  httle  black  at  the 
edges. 

"  My,  what  a  big  beauty  ! "  exclaimed  Grizzel. 

"  Do  take  it,  Grizzel,  for  my  hands  be  all  a  cramped  with 
its  weight,"  said  Mrs.  Standisli :  who,  as  it  turned  out,  had 
been  over  to  Roper's  lodgings,  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  with 
a  view  of  seeing  what  had  become  of  the  bridegroom  elect. 
And  she  nearly  threw  the  pie  into  Grizzel's  arms,  and  took 
do^vn  her  govv-n. 

"  And  vv'hat  do  Roper  say  ? "  asked  Grizzel.  "  And  why 
Lave  he  not  been  here  ?  " 

"  Roper's  not  at  home,"  said  Mary  Standisli.  "  He  come 
in  from  work  about  six  ;  washed  and  put  hisself  to  rights  a 
bit,  and  then  went  out  with  a  big  bundle.  Mrs.  Dodd  called 
after  him  to  bring  the  pie,  but  he  called  back  again  that  the 
pie  might  wait." 


362  QOrNQ   TO  THE    MOP. 

"  "What  was  in  the  bundle  ?"  questioned  Grizzel,  resenting 
the  slight  shown  to  the  pie. 

"  Well,  by  the  loolis  on't,  Mother  Dodd  thought  'twas  his 
worldng  clothes  packed  up,"  replied  Mary  Standish. 

"  His  worlving  clothes !"  cried  Grizzel. 

"  A  going  to  take  'em  to  the  tailor's,  maybe,  to  get  'em 
done  up.     And  not  afore  they  wanted  it." 

""Why,  it's  spending  money  for  nothing,"  was  Grizzel's 
comment.     "  I  could  ha'  done  up  them  clothes." 

"  Well,  it's  what  Mother  Dodd  thought,"  concluded  Mary 
Standish. 

We  said  good-night,  and  went  racing  home,  leaving  the  two 
women  r.t  the  door,  Grizzel  lodging  the  heavy  blackberry  pie 
on  the  old  grindstone. 


It  was  a  glorious  day  for  Grizzel's  wedding.  The  hour 
fixed  by  the  clerk  (old  Bumford)  was  ten  o'clock,  so  that  it 
might  be  got  well  over  before  the  bell  rang  out  for  service. 
We  reached  the  church  early.  Amidst  the  few  spectatora 
already  there  was  cross-grained  Molly,  pocketing  her  ill- 
temi)er  and  for  once  meanino;  to  be  gracious  to  Grizzel. 

Ten  o'clock  struck,  and  the  big  old  clock  went  ticking  on. 
Clerk  Bumford  (a  pompous  man  when  free  from  gout)  began 
abusing  the  wedding  party  for  not  keeping  its  time.  The 
quarter  past  was  striking  when  Grizzel  came  up,  %vitli  Mary 
Standish  and  a  young  girl.  She  looked  white  and  nervous, 
and  not  at  all  at  ease  in  her  bridal  attire, — a  green  gown  of 
some  kind  of  stuff,  and  no  end  of  pink  ribbons :  the  choice  of 
colors  being  Grizzel's  own. 

"  Is  Roper  here  yet?"  whispered  Mary  Standish. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  It's  too  bad  of  liim  !"  she  continued.  "Never  to  send  a 
body  word  whether  he  meant  to  call  for  us,  or  not :  and  ua 
a-waiting  there  till  now,  expecting  of  him." 

But  where  was  George  Roper?      And  (as  rild    Rumford 


GOING   TO   THE    MOP.  363 

asTjed)  what  did  Jie  mean  by  it?  The  clergyman  in  his  sur- 
plice and  hood  looked  out  at  the  vestry  twice,  as  if  c[uestion- 
ing  what  the  delay  meant.  We  stood  just  inside  the  porch, 
and  Grizzel  grew  whiter  and  whiter. 

"  Just  a  few  minutes  more  o'  this  delay,  and  there  won't  be 
no  wedding  at  all  this  blessed  morning,"  announced  Clerk 
Bumford  aloud  for  the  public  benefit.  "  George  Roper  wants 
a  good  blowing  up,  he  do." 

Ere  the  words  were  well  spoken,  a  young  man  named 
Dicker,  who  was  a  fellow  lodger  of  Eoper's  and  was  to  have 
accompanied  him  to  church,  made  his  appearance  alone. 
That  something  had  gone  wrong  was  jDlain  to  be  seen  :  but, 
what  Vvdth  the  publicity  of  his  present  position,  and  what 
with  the  stern  clerk  pouncing  down  upon  him  in  wrath,  the 
young  man  could  hardly  get  his  news  out. 

In  the  first  place,  Eoper  had  never  been  at  home  all  night ; 
never  been  seen,  in  short,  since  he  had  left  Mrs.  Dodd's  with 
the  bundle,  as  related  by  Mary  Standish.  That  morning, 
while  Dicker  m  his  consternation  knew  not  what  to  be  at — 
whether  to  be  off  to  church  alone,  or  to  wait  still,  in  the  hope 
that  Roper  would  come, — two  notes  were  delivered  at  Mrs. 
Dodd's  by  a  strange  boy  :  the  one  addressed  to  himself,  John 
Dicker,  the  other  to  "  Miss  Clay,"  meaning  Grizzel.  They 
bore  ill  news;  George  Roper  had  given  up  his  marriage,  and 
gone  away  for  good. 

At  this  extraordinary  crisis,  pompous  Clerk  Bumford  was 
BO  taken  aback,  that  he  could  only  open  his  mouth  and  stare. 
It  gave  Dicker  the  opportunity  to  put  a  fev,^  words  in. 

"  What  \VQ  thought  at  Mother  Dodd's  was,  that  Roper  had 
took  a  drop  too  much  somewhere  last  evening,  and  couldn't 
get  home.  lie's  as  sober  a  man  as  can  be — but  whatever  else 
was  we  to  think?  And  when  this  writed  note  come  this 
morning,  and  we  found  he  had  gone  off  to  Ameriky  o'  pur- 
pose to  avoid  being  married,  wo  vv-as  downright  floundered. 
This  is  yours,  Grizzel,"  added  the  young  man  in  as  gently 
considerate  a  tone  as  any  gentleman  could  have  used. 


ZOi  GOmO   TO   THE    MOP. 

Grizzel's  liand  sliook  as  she  took  the  letter  he  held  out. 
She  was  biting  her  pale  lips  hard  to  keep  down  emotion. 
"Take  it  and  read  it,"  she  \vhispe)*ed  to  Mary  Standish, — for 
in  truth  she  herself  could  not,  "with  all  that  sea  of  curious 
eyes  upon  her. 

But  Mary  Standish  labored  under  the  slio-ht  disadvantaso 
of  not  being  able  to  read  writing  :  conscious  of  this  difficulty, 
she  would  not  touch  the  letter.  Mr.  Buniford,  his  senses  and 
his  tongue  returned  together,  snatched  it  without  ceremony 
out  of  Grizzel's  hand. 

"  I'll  read  it,"  said  he.  And  he  did  so.  And  I,  Johnny 
Ludlow,  give  you  the  copy  verbatim. 

"  Der  Grisl,  saterdy  evenin,  this  comes  lioppin  you  be  wel 
as  it  leves  me  at  presint,  Which  this  is  to  doclar  to  you  der 
grisl  that  our  marage  is  at  an  end,  it  hav  ben  to  much  for  me 
and  praid  on  my  sperits,  I  cant  stand  it  no  longer  nohow  and 
hav  took  my  leve  of  you  for  ivir,  Der  Grisl  I  maks  my  best 
way  this  night  to  Livirpol  to  tak  ship  for  Ameriky,  and  my  last 
hops  for  you  hearby  xprest  is  as  you  may  be  hapy  with  an- 
nother,  I  were  nivir  worthey  of  you  der  grisl  and  tliats  a  fac, 
but  I  kep  it  from  you  til  now  when  I  cant  kep  it  no  longer 
cause  of  my  conshunse,  once  youv  red  this  hear  letter  dont  you 
nivir  think  no  mor  on  me  agen,  which  I  sliant  on  you,  Adew 
for  ivir. 

"  your  unfortnit  friend  George  Eoper. 

"  Ide  av  carred  acres  that  ther  blakbured  pi  but  should  have 
ben  to  late,  my  good  hops  is  youl  injoy  the  in  with  another 
better  nor  you  ivir  could  along  with  me,  best  furwel  wishes 
to  Mary  Standish,  G.  R." 

AVhat  with  the  iDcnmanship  and  what  with  the  spelling,  it 
took  old  Bumford's  spectacles  some  time  to  get  through.  A 
thunderbolt -could  hardly  have  made  more  stir  than  tliis  ncM'S. 
Nobody  spoke,  however ;  and  Mr.  Bumford  folded  the  letter 
in  silence. 


GOING  TO  THE    MOP.  365 

"T  always  knowed  wliat  tliat  there  Eoper  was  worth,"  broke 
forth  Molly.  "  He  pipe-clayed  my  best  black  cloak  on  the 
sly  one  day  when  I  ordered  him  off  the  premises.  You  be 
better  without  him,  Grizzel,  girl — and  here's  my  hand  and 
wishing  you  better  luck  in  token  of  it." 

"  Mrs.  Dodd  was  right — them  was  a  change  o'  clothes  he 
was  a-taking  with  him  to  Ameriky,"  added  Mary  Standish. 

"  Eoper's  a  jail-bird,  I  should  say,"  put  in  old  Bumford. 
"  A  nice  un  too." 

"But  what  can  it  be  that's  went  wrong — what  is  it  that 
have  took  him  off  ?"  wondered  the  young  man.  Dicker. 

The  parson  in  his  surphce  had  come  along  the  aisle  and  was 
standing  to  listen.  Grizzel,  in  the  very  extremity  of  mental 
bitterness  and  confusion,  but  stri\'ing  to  put  a  good  face  of 
indifference  on  the  matter  before  the  public,  gazed  aronnd 
helplessly. 

"  I'm  better  without  him,  as  Molly  says — and  what  do  I 
care  ?"  she  cried,  recklessly,  her  lips  and  face  quivering.  The 
parson  put  his  hand  gravely  on  her  arm. 

"  My  good  young  woman,  I  think  you  are  in  tnith  better 
without  him.  Such  a  man  as  that  is  not  worthy  of  a  re- 
gret." 

"  'No,  sir,  and  I  don't  and  won't  regret  liim,"  was  her  rapid 
answer,  the  voice  rising  hysterically. 

As  she  turned,  intending  to  leave  the  church,  she  came  face 
to  face  with  Sandy  Lett.  I  had  seen  him  standing  there, 
di-inking  in  the  words  of  the  note  with  all  his  ears  and  taking 
covert  looks  at  Grizzel. 

"Don't  pass  me  by,  Grizzel,"  said  he.  "I  feel  hearty 
sorry  for  all  this,  and  I  hope  that  villain'll  come  to  be  drowned 
on  his  way  to  Ameriky.  Let  me  be  your  friend.  I'll  make 
yon  a  good  one." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered.     "Please  let  me  go  by." 

"  Look  here,  Grizzel,"  he  rejoined,  with  a  start,  as  if  some 

thought   had    at    that   moment   occurred   to    him.     "Why 

; shouldn't  you  and  me  make  it  up  together?    Now.     If  the 


366  GOING   TO   THE    MOP. 

one  bridegroom's  been  a  wicked  runagate,  and  left  you  all 
forsaken,  you  S33  another  here  ready  to  put  on  his  shoes. 
Do,  Grizzcl,  do  !" 

"Do  wliat?"  she  asked,  not  catching  his  meaning. 

"  Let's  be  married,  Grizzel.  You  and  me.  There's  the 
parson  and  Mr.  Bumford  all  ready,  and  wo  can  get  it  over 
afore  church  begins.  It's  a  good  home  I've  got  to  take  you 
to.     Don't  say  nay,  my  girl." 

Now  what  should  Grizzel  do  ?  Like  the  lone  lorn  widow 
in  "  David  Copj)crlield,"  who,  when  a  ship's  carpenter  offered 
her  marriage,  ''  instead  of  saying  '  Thank  you,  sir,  I'd  rather 
not,'  up  with  a  bucket  of  water  and  dashed  it  over  him," 
Grizzel  "  up  "  with  her  hand  and  dealt  Mr.  Sandy  a  sounding 
smack  on  the  side  of  his  left  cheek.  Smarting  under  the  in- 
fliction, Sandy  Lett  gave  vent  to  a  word  or  two  of  passion, 
out  of  place  in  a  church,  and  the  parson  administered  a  repri- 
mand. 

Grizzel  had  not  waited.  Before  the  sound  of  her  hand  had 
died  away,  she  was  outside  the  door,  quickly  traversing  the 
lonely  church-yard.     A  line  end  to  poor  Grizzel's  wedding ! 

The  following  day,  Monday,  Mrs.  Todhetley  went  over  to 
the  cottage.  Grizzel,  sitting  with  her  hands  before  her, 
started  up,  and  made  believe  to  be  desperately  busy  with  some 
tea-cups.     We  were  all  sorry  for  her. 

"  Mr.  Todhetley  had  been  making  inquiry  into  this  busi- 
ness, Grizzel,"  said  the  Mater,  "  and  it  certainly  seems  more 
mysterious  than  ever,  for  he  cannot  hear  a  word  against  Roper. 
His  late  master  saj-s  Roper  was  the  best  servant  he  ever  had  ; 
he  is  as  sorry  to  lose  him  as  can  be." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  but  he's  not  worth  troubling  about — my 
thanks  and  duty  to  the  master  all  the  same." 

"  Would  you  mind  letting  me  sec  Roper's  note  ?" 

Grizzel  took  it  out  of  the  tea-caddy  I  had  given  her — which 
caddy  Wiis  to  have  been  kept  for  show.  Mrs.  Todhetley,  mas- 
tering the  contents,  and  biting  her  lips  to  suppress  an  occa- 
llonal  smile,  sat  in  thought. 


GOING    TO    THE    MOP.  36  T 

"I  suppose  this  is  Roper's  own  handwi'iting,  Grizzel  ?" 

"  Oh  ma'am,  it's  liis,  safe  enough.  ISTot  that  I  ever  saw 
him  write.  He  talks  about  the  blackberry  pie,  you  see  ;  one 
might  kuoM'  it  is  his  by  that." 

"  Then,  judging  by  Vv'hat  he  says  here,  he  must  have  got  in- 
to some  bad  conduct  or  trouble,  I  think,  which  he  has  been 
clever  enough  to  keep  from  you  and  the  world." 

"  Oh  yes,  that's  it,''  said  Grizzel.  "  Poor  mother  used  to 
say  one  might  be  deceived  in  a  saint." 

"  Well,  it's  a  pity  but  he  had  given  some  clue  to  its  nature: 
it  would  have  been  a  sort  of  satisfaction.  But  now — I  chiefly 
came  over  to  ask  you,  Grizzel,  what  you  purpose  to  do  ?" 

"  There's  only  one  thing  for  me  now,  ma'am,"  returned 
poor  crest-fallen  Grizzel,  after  a  pause  :  "  I  must  get  another 
place." 

"  Will  you  come  back  to  the  Manor  ?" 

A  hesitation — a  struggle — and  then  she  flung  her  apron  up 
to  her  face  and  burst  into  tears.  Dairy-maids  have  their  feel- 
ings as  well  as  their  betters,  and  Grizzel's  "  lines  "  were  very 
bitter  just  then.  She  had  been  so  proud  of  this  poor  cottage 
home ;  she  had  grown  to  love  it  so  only  in  those  few  days  of 
occupancy,  and  to  look  forward  to  years  of  happiness  within 
it  in  their  humble  way  :  and  nov/  to  find  that  she  must  give  it 
up  and  go  to  service  again  ! 

"  The  Squire  says  he  will  consider  it  as  though  you  and 
lloper  had  not  taken  the  cottage  ;  and  he  thinks  he  can  find 
somebody  to  rent  it  who  will  buy  the  furniture  of  you — that 
is,  if  you  prefer  to  sell  it,"  she  resumed  very  kindly.  "  And 
I  think  3'ou  had  better  come  back  to  us,  Grizzel.  The  new 
maid  in  your  place  does  not  suit  at  all." 

Grizzel  took  down  her  apron  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  "  It's 
very  good  of  you,  ma'am — and  of  the  master — and  I'd  like  to 
come  back  but  for  one  thing.  I'm  afraid  Molly  would  let  me 
have  no  jDeace  in  my  life :  she'd  get  tanking  at  me  about 
Kopcr  before  the  others.  PerhajDS  I'd  hardly  be  able  to 
stand  it." 


868  GOING   TO   THE    JfOP. 

"I  Will  talk  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Todhetloy;  rising  to  go. 
"  Wliere  is  Mary  Standisli  to-day  ?" 

"  Gone  over  to  Alcester,  ma'am.  She  had  a  errant  there, 
slie  said.  But  I  think  it  was  only  to  tell  her  folks  the  tale  of 
my  trouble." 

Molly  had  her  "  talking  to  "  at  once.  It  put  her  out  a  lit- 
tle ;  for  she  was  really  feclhig  some  pity  for  Grizzel,  and  did 
not  at  all  intend  to  "  get  tanking  "  at  her.  Molly  had  once 
experienced  a  similar  disappointment  herself ;  and  her  heart 
was  opening  to  Grizzel.  After  her  dinner  was  served  that 
evening,  she  ran  over  to  the  cottage,  in  her  coarse  cookiug 
apron  and  without  a  bonnet. 

"■Look  here,"  she  said,  bursting  in  upon  Grizzel,  sitting 

alone  in  the  dusk.     "  You  come  back  to  your  place  if  you  hkc 

— the  missis  says  she  has  given  you  the  option — and  don't  you 

be  af  card  of  me.    'Tisn't  me  as'U  ever  give  back  to  you  a  word 

'  about  Ilopcr;  and,  mind,  when  I  says  a  thing  I  mean  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Molly,"  humbly  replied  poor  Grizzel,  catch- 
ing up  her  breath. 

"The  sooner  you  come  back  the  better,"  continued  Molly, 
fiercely.  "For  it's  not  me  and  that  wench  we've  got  now  as 
is  going  to  stop  together.  I  had  to  call  the  missis  into  the 
dairy  this  blessed  morning,  and  show  her  the  state  it  was  in. 
So   you'll   come   back,  Grizzel— and   we'll    bo   glad   to    see 

you." 

Grizzel  nodded  her  head :  her  heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  And  as  to  that  false  villain  of  a  Koper,  as  could  serve  a 
woman  such  a  pitiful  trick,  I  only  wish  I  had  the  doctoring 

of    him!     He    should    get    a— a— a "      Molly's    voice, 

pitched  in  a  high  tone,  died  gradually  away.  What  on  earth 
was  it,  stepping  in  upon  them?  Some  most  extraordinary 
object,  who  opened  the  door  softly,  and  came  in  with  a  pitch. 
Molly  peered  at  it  in  the  darkness  with  open  mouth. 

A  ory  from  Grizzel.  A  cry,  half  of  terror,  half  of  pain. 
For  she  had  recognized  the  object  to  be  a  man,  and  George 
Roper.     George  Kopcr  with  his  hair  and  handsome  whiskera 


GOING   TO    THE    MOP.  369 

cut  off,  and  wliite  sleeves  in  liis  brown  coat — so  that  lie 
looked  like  a  merry  Andrew. 

He  seemed  three  parts  stnpefied  :  not  at  all  like  a  traveller 
in  condition  to  set  off  to  America.  Sinking  down  in  the 
nearest  wooden  chair,  he  stared  at  Grizzel  in  a  dazed  way, 
and  spoke  in  a  slow,  questioning,  wondering  voice. 

"  I  can't  think  what  it  is  that's  the  matter  with  me." 

"Where  be  your  black  whiskers — and  your  hair?"  burst 
forth  MoUy. 

The  man  gazed  at  her  for  a  minute  or  two,  taking  in  the 
question  ;  he  then  raised  his  trembling  hand  to  either  side  his 
face — feeling  for  the  whiskers  that  were  no  longer  there. 

"  A  nice  pot  o'  mischief  you're  been  a-getting  into !  "  cried 
bharp  Molly.  "  Is  that  your  own  coat  ?  What's  gone  of  the 
sleeves  ?" 

For,  now  that  the  coat  could  be  seen  closely,  it  turned  out 
that  its  sleeves  had  been  cut  out,  leaving  the  bare  white 
sleeves  of  the  shirt  underneath.  Eoper  looked  first  at  one 
arm,  then  at  the  other. 

"  What  part  of  Ameriky  be  ye  bound  for,  and  when  do  the 
ship  sail  ?"  j)ursued  sarcastic  Molly. 

The  man  opened  his  mouth  and  closed  it  again  ;  like,  as 
Molly  put  it,  a  born  natural.  Grizzel  suddenly  clung  to  him 
with  a  sobbing  cry, 

"  He  is  ill,  Molly  ;  he's  ill.  He  has  had  some  trick  played 
on  him.  George,  what  be  it  ?"  But  still  George  Eoper  only 
gazed  about  him  as  if  too  stupid  to  understand. 

In  short,  the  man  was  stupid.  That  is,  he  had  been  stupe  • 
fied,  and  as  yet  was  only  partially  recovering  the  effects.  He 
remembered  going  into  the  barber's  shop  on  Saturday  night 
to  have  his  hair  cut,  after  leaving  his  bundle  of  clothes  at  the 
tailor's.  Some  ale  was  served  round  at  the  barber's,  and  he, 
Eoper,  took  a  glass.  After  that  he  remembered  nothing :  all 
was  blank,  until  he  woke  up  an  hour  ago  in  the  unused  shed 
at  the  back  of  the  blacksmith's  shop. 

That  the  ale  had  been  badly  drugged,  was  evident.  The 
16*  . 


370  GOING   TO   THE    MOP. 

question  arose — wlio  had  played  the  trick  ?  In  a  day  or  two, 
■when  Eoper  had  recovered,  an  inquiry  was  set  on  foot :  but 
nothino;  came  of  it.  The  barber  testified  that  Roper  seemed 
sleepy  after  the  ale,  and  a  joke  went  round  that  he  must  have 
been  drinking  some  previously.  He  went  out  of  the  shop 
without  liaving  his  hair  cut,  with  several  more  men — and  that 
was  all  the  barber  knew.  Of  course  Sandy  Lett  was  sus- 
pected. People  said  he  had  done  it  in  hopes  to  get  himself 
substituted  for  the  bridegroom.  Lett,  however,  vowed 
throuHi  thick  and  thin  that  he  was  innocent ;  and  nothing 
was  traced  home  to  him.  Neither  was  the  handwritmg  of 
the  note. 

They  were  married  on  the  Thursday.  Grizzel  was  too  glad 
to  get  him  back  unharmed  to  make  bones  over  the  cut 
whiskers.  No  difficulty  was  made  about  opening  the  church 
on  a  week-day.  Clerk  Bumford  grumbled  at  it,  but  the  par- 
son put  him  down.  And  the  blackberry  pie  served  still  for 
tlie  wedding  dinner. 


XYII. 


BEEAKmG    DOWK. 


^S^ 


^m 


!t#A\^E  him  liere  a  bit." 

"  Oh  !     But  would  yon  like  it  ?" 

"  Like  it  ? "  retorted  the  Squire.  "  I  know  this  ;  if 
I  were  a  hard-worked  London  clerk,  ill  for  want  of  change 
and  rest,  and  I  had  friends  living  in  a  nice  part  of  the  coun- 
try, I  should  feel  it  uncommonly  hard  if  they  did  not  invite 


5J 


me. 

"  I'm  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Todhetley. 

"  Write  at  once  and  ask  him,"  said  the  Squire. 

They  were  speaking  of  a  Mr.  Marks.  lie  was  a  relation  of 
Mrs.  Todhetley's ;  a  second  or  third  cousin.  She  had  not 
seen  him  since  she  was  a  girl,  when  he  had  used  sometimes  to 
come  and  stay  at  her  father's.  He  seemed  not  to  have  got  on 
very  well  in  life :  was  only  a  clerk  on  a  narrow  salary,  was 
married  and  had  some  children.  A  letter  now  and  then 
passed  between  them  and  Mrs.  Todhetley,  but  no  other  ac- 
quaintanceship had  been  kept  up.  About  a  month  before 
this,  Mrs.  Todhetley  had  written  to  ask  how  they  were  going 
on  ;  and  the  wife  in  answering — for  it  was  she  who  wrote — 
said  her  husband  was  killing  himself  with  work,  and  slie  quite 
bcheved  he  would  break  down  for  good  unless  he  had  a  rest. 

Yv^e  heard  more  about  it  later.  James  Marks  was  cleric  in 
a  great  financial  house — Brown  and  Co.  Kot  particularly 
great  as  to  reputation,  for  they  made  no  noise  in  the  world, 
but  great  as  to  their  transactions.     They  did  a  little  banking 


372  •       BEEAEIN&     DOWN. 

iu  a  email  way,  and  had  mysterious  money  dealings  with  no 
end  of  foreign  places  :  but  if  you  had  gone  into  their  count- 
ing-house in  London  you'd  have  seen  nothing  to  show  for  it, 
save  Mr.  Brown  seated  at  a  table-desk  in  a  small  room,  and 
half  a  dozen  clerks,  or  so,  writing  hard,  or  bending  over 
columns  of  ligures,  in  a  bigger  one.  Mr.  Brown  was  an 
elderly  little  gentleman  in  a  chestnut  wig,  and  the  "Co." 
existed  only  in  name. 

James  Marks  had  been  thrown  on  the  world  when  he  was 
Bcventcen,  with  a  good  education,  good  jjrinciples,  and  a  great 
anxiety  to  get  on  in  life.  He  had  to  do  it ;  for  he  had  only 
himself  to  look  to — and,  mind  you,  I  have  lived  long  enough 
to  learn  that  that's  not  at  all  the  worst  thing  a  young  man  can 
have.  When  some  friends  of  his  late  father's  o:ot  him  into 
Brown  and  Co.'s  house,  James  Marks  thought  his  fortune  was 
made.  That  is,  he  thought  he  was  placed  in  a  position  to 
work  up  to  one.  But  no.  Here  he  was,  getting  on  for  forty 
years  of  age,  and  with  no  more  prospect  of  fortune,  or  com- 
petence either,  than  he  had  at  the  beginning. 

How  many  clerks,  and  especially  bankers'  clerks,  are  there 
in  that  City  of  London  now  who  could  say  the  same  !  AVho 
went  into  their  house  (whatsoever  it  may  be)  in  the  hey-day 
oi  their  youth,  exulting  in  their  good  luck  in  having  obtained 
the  admission  for  which  so  many  others  were  striving.  They 
saw  not  the  long  years  of  toil  before  them,  the  weary  days  of 
clo'^e  work,  with  no  rest  or  intermission,  save  Sunday ;  they 
saw  not  the  struggle  to  live  and  pay  ;  they  saw  not  themselves 
middle-aged  men,  with  a  wife  and  family,  hardly  able  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door.  It  was  James  Marks's  case.  He 
had  married.  And  what  with  having  to  keep  uj)  the  appear- 
ance of  gcntlepeople  (at  least  to  make  a  pretence  at  it)  and  to 
live  in  a  decent-looking  dwelling,  and  to  buy  clothes,  and  to 
pay  doctor's  bills  and  children's  schooling,  I'll  leave  you  to 
guess  how  much  he  had  left  for  luxuries  out  of  his  two  hun- 
dred a  year. 

When   expenses  were   coming  upon  him  thick  and  fast. 


•RKEAEIXG     DOWN.  373 

Marks  songlit  out  some  niglit  emplopnent.  A  tradesman  in 
the  neifrhborhood — wliicli  was  Pimlico — a  butter  and  eliccse- 
man  doing  a  fionrisliing  businesss,  advertised  for  a  book- 
keeper to  attend  two  or  three  hom-s  in  the  evening.  James 
]\rarks  presented  himself  and  was  engaged.  It  had  to  be 
done  in  a  kind  of  secrecy,  lest  offence  shonld  be  taken  at 
.ead-quarters.  Had  the  little  man  in  the  chestnut  wig  heard 
of  it,  he  might  have  objected  to  his  clerk  keeping  any  books 
but  his  own.  Shut  up  in  the  cheesemonger's  small  back 
closet  that  he  called  his  counting  house,  Mr.  Marks  could  be 
as  private  as  need  be.  So  there  he  was  !  After  coming 
home  from  his  daj-'s  toil,  instead  of  taking  needful  recreation, 
the  home-sitting  with  his  wife,  or  the  stroll  in  the  summer 
weather,  in  place  of  throwing  work  to  the  winds  and  giving 
his  brain  rest,  James  Marks,  after  snatching  a  meal,  tea  and 
supper  combined,  vrent  forth  to  vrork  again,  to  weary  his  eyes 
with  more  figures  and  his  head  with  casting  them  up.  He 
generally  managed  to  get  home  by  eleven  except  on  Saturday ; 
but  the  day's  work  was  too  much  for  any  man.  Better  for 
him  (could  he  have  pocketed  pride,  and  gained  over  Brown 
and  Co.)  that  he  had  hired  himself  to  stand  behind  the  even- 
ins:  counter  and  serve  out  the  butter  and  cheese  to  the  cus- 
tomers.  It  vrould  at  least  have  been  a  rehef  from  the  ac- 
counts.    And  so  the  years  had  gone  on. 

A  portion  of  the  wife's  letter  to  Mrs.  Todhetley  had  ran  as 
follows :  "  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  inquiries 
after  my  husband,  and  for  your  hope  that  he  is  not  overwork- 
ing himself.  lie  is.  But  I  suppose  I  must  have  said  some- 
thing about  it  in  my  last  letter  (I  am  ashamed  to  remember 
that  it  was  written  two  years  ago  !)  that  induced  you  to  refer 
to  it.  That  he  is  overworking  himself  I  have  known  for  a 
long  while  :  and  things  that  he  has  said  lately  have  tended  to 
alarm  me.  He  speaks  of  sometimes  getting  confused  in  the 
head.  In  the  inidst  of  a  close  calculation  he  will  suddenly 
seem  to  lose  himself- -lose  memory  and  figures  and  all,  and 
then  he  has  to  leave  off  for  some  minutes,  hide  his  eyes,  and 


374:  EREAKTXG     DOWN. 

keep  perfectly  still,  or  else  lea\'e  his  stool  and  talce  a  few 
turns  np  and  do\vn  tlio  room.  Another  tiling  he  mentions- — 
that  the  figures  dance  before  his  eyes  in  bed  ut  night,  and  be 
is  adding  them  up  in  his  brain  as  if  it  were  daytime  and 
reality.  It  is  very  evident  to  mo  that  he  wants  change  and 
rest." 

"And  what  a  foolish  fellow  he  must  have  been  not  to  take 
it  before  this!"  cried  the  Squire,  commenting  on  parts  of  the 
letter,  while  Mrs.  Todhetley  wrote. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  what  he  has  not  been  able  to  do  so,  sir,"  I 
said. 

"Not  able!     Why,  what  d'ye  mean,  Johnny?" 

"  It  is  very  difficult  for  a  banker's  clerk  to  get  holiday. 
Their  work  has  to  go  on  all  the  same." 

"  Difficult !  when  a  man's  powers  are  breaking  down ! 
D'ye  think  bankers  are  made  of  flint  and  steel,  not  to  give 
their  clerks  holiday  when  it  is  needed  ?  Don't  you  talk  non- 
sense, Johnny  Ludlow." 

But  I  was  not  so  far  wrong,  after  all.  There  came  a  letter 
of  warm  thanks  from  Mr.  Marks  himself  in  answer  to 
Mrs.  Todhetley's  invitation.  lie  said  how  much  he  should 
have  liked  to  accept  it  and  what  great  good  it  would  certainly 
have  done  him ;  but  that  upon  applying  for  leave  he  found 
he  could  not  be  spared.  So  there  seemed  to  be  an  end  of  it ; 
aiid  we  hojicd  he  would  get  better  without  the  rest,  and  rub 
on  as  other  clerks  liave  to  rub  on.  But  in  less  than  a  month 
he  wrote  again,  saying  he  would  come  if  the  Squire  and  Mrs. 
Todhetley  were  still  pleased  to  have  him.  lie  had  been  so 
much  worse  as  to  be  obliged  to  tell  Mr.  Brown  the  truth — - 
that  he  believed  he  must  have  rest ;  and  Mr.  Brown  granted 
it  to  him. 

It  was  the  "Wednesday  in  Passion  Week,  and  a  fine  spring 
day,  "wlien  James  Marks  arrived  at  Dyke  Manor.  Easter  was 
late  that  year.  He  was  rather  a  tall  man,  with  dark  eyes  and 
very  thin  hair ;  he  wore  spectacles,  and  at  first  was  rather  shy 
in  manner. 


BREATCTXG     DOWN.  375 

You  should  have  seen  his  delight  in  the  change.  The 
walks  he  took,  the  enjoyment  of  what  he  called  the  sweet 
country.  "  Oh,"  he  said  one  day  to  us,  "yours  must  be  the 
happiest  lot  on  earth  !  No  forced  work  ;  your  living  assured  ; 
nothing  to  do  but  to  revel  in  this  health-giving  air  !  Forgive 
my  freedom,  Mr.  Todhetley,"  he  added  a  moment  after,  "  I 
was  contrasting  your  lot  with  my  own." 

We  were  passing  through  the  fields  towards  the  Court :  the 
Squire  was  taking  him  to  see  the  Sterlings,  and  he  had  said 
he  would  rather  walk  than  drive.  The  hedges  were  spread- 
ing into  green  :  the  grass  on  either  side  us  was  j^ellow  with 
buttercuiDS  and  coAvslips.  This  was  on  the  Monday.  The 
sun  shone  and  the  breeze  was  soft.  Mr.  Marks  snified  the 
air  as  he  went  along. 

"  Six  months  of  this  would  make  a  new  man  of  me,"  we 
heard  him  say  to  himself  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Take  it,"  cried  the  Squire. 

Mr.  Marks  laughed,  sadly  enough.  "  You  might  as  well- 
tell  me,  sir,  to — to  take  heaven,"  he  said,  impulsively.  "  The 
one  is  no  more  in  my  power  than  the  other. — Oh,  hark  !  I  do 
believe  that's  the  cuckoo  !  " 

We  stood  still  to  listen.  It  was  the  cuckoo,  sure  enough, 
for  the  first  time  that  spring.  It  only  gave  out  two  or  three 
notes,  though,  and  then  was  silent. 

"  How  many  years  it  is  since  I  heard  the  cuckoo  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, brushing  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  "More  than 
twenty,  I  suppose.  It  seems  to  bring  back  my  youth  to  me. 
What  a  thing  it  would  be  for  us,  sir,  if  we  could  only  go  into 
the  mill  that  grinds  people  young  again  !  " 

The  Squire  laughed.  "  It  is  good  of  you  to  talk  of  age, 
Marks ;  why,  I  must  be  nearly  double  yours,"  he  added— 
which  of  course  was  but  random  speaking. 

"  I  feel  old,  Mr.  Todhetley  ;  perhaps  older  than  you  do. 
Think  of  the  difference  in  om-  mode  of  life.  I,  tied  down  to 
a  desk  for  more  hours  of  the  twenty-four  than  I  care  to  think 


376  BREAKING     DOWN. 

of,  mj  brain  ever  at  work;  you,  revelling  in  this  beautiful, 
healthy  freedom ! " 

"  Ay,  well,  it  is  a  difference,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it,"  said  the  Squire  soberly. 

"  I  must  not  repine,"  returned  Marks.  ''  Tliere  are  more 
men  in  my  case  than  in  yours.  No  doubt  it  is  well  for  me," 
he  continued,  dropping  his  voice,  with  a  sigh.  "  Were  your 
favored  iot  mine,  sir,  I  miglit  find  so  much  good  in  it  as  to 
forget  that  this  world  is  not  our  true  home." 

Perhaps  it  had  never  struck  the  Squire  before  how  much 
he  was  to  be  envied ;  but  Marks  put  it  strongl3^  "  You'd 
find  crosses  and  cares  enough  in  my  place,  I  can  tell  you, 
Marks,  of  one  sort  or  another.  Johnny,  here,  knows  how  I 
am  bothered  sometimes." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Marks,  with  a  smile.  "  No  lot 
on  eartli  can  be  free  from  its  duties  and  responsibilities  ;  and 
they  nuist  of  necessity  entail  care.  That  is  one  thing,  Mr. 
Todhetlcy  ;  l)ut  to  bo  working  away  your  life  at  steam  point 
— and  to  know  that  you  are  working  it  away — is  another." 

"  You  acknowledge,  then,  that  you  are  working  too  hard, 
Maries,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  I  know  I  am,  sir.     But  there's  no  helj)  for  it." 

"  It  is  a  pity." 

"  Why  it  should  begin  to  tell  upon  me  so  early  I  don't 
know.  There  are  other  men,  numbers  of  them,  who  work  as 
long  and  hard  as  I  do,  and  are  seemingly  none  the  worse  for 
it."^ 

"  The  time  will  come  though  when  they  will  be,  I  presume." 

"  As  surely  as  that  sun  is  shining  in  the  sky." 

"  Possibly  you  have  been  more  anxious  than  they,  Marks." 

"  It  may  be  so.  My  conscience  has  always  been  in  my 
work,  to  do  it  veiy  efiiciently.  I  fear,  too,  I  am  rather  sen- 
sitively organised  as  to  nerves  and  brain  :  upon  those  who  are 
60,  I  fancy  work  tells  faster  than  on  others." 

Tlie  Squire  put  his  arm  vrithin  Marks',  "  You  must  have 
a  bit  of  a  struggle  to  get  along,  too,  on  your  small  salary." 


BREAKING     DOWIST.  377 

"  True  :  cand  it  all  helps,  "Work  and  struggle  togetlier  are 
not  the  most  desirable  combination.  But  for  being  obliged 
to  increase  my  means  by  some  stratagem  or  other,  I  should 
not  have  taken  on  the  additional  evening  s  work." 

"  How  long  are  you  at  it,  now,  of  an  evening  ?" 

"  Usually  about  two  hours.  On  Saturdays  and  at  Christ- 
nas-time  longer." 

"  And  I  suj^pose  you  must  continue  this  night-work  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  get  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  it.  And  I  assure  you 
I  should  not  know  how  to  spare  one  pound  of  the  fifty,  'No 
one  knows  the  expenses  of  children,  save  those  who  have  to 
look  at  every  shilling  before  it  can  be  spent," 

There  was  a  pause,  Mr.  Marks  stooped,  plucked  a  cow- 
slij)  and  held  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Marks,"  resumed  the  Squire,  in  a  con- 
fidential, friendly  tone,  "  that  you  were  just  a  little  imprudent 
to  marry  ? " 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  I  was,"  he  replied  slowly,  as  if  con- 
sidering the  question,  "  I  did  not  marry  very  early  :  I  was 
eight-and-twenty ;  and  I  had  got  together  the  wherewithal  to 
furnish  a  house,  and  something  in  hand  besides.  The  ques- 
tion was  mooted  among  us  at  Brown's  the  other  day — whether 
it  was  wiser,  or  not,  for  young  clerks  to  marry.  There  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  urged  both  ways — against  marrying  and 
against  remaining  single." 

"  What  can  you  urge  against  remaining  single  ?" 

"  A  very  great  deal,  sir.  I  feel  sure,  Mr.  Todhetley,  that 
you  can  form  no  idea  of  the  miserable  temptations  that  beset 
a  young  fellow  in  London.  Quite  half  the  London  clerks, 
perhaps  more,  have  no  home  to  go  to  when  their  day  is  over  ; 
I  mean  no  parent's  home.  A  solitary  room  and  nobody  to 
bear  them  company  in  it ;  that's  all  they  have :  perhaps,  in 
addition,  a  crabbed  landlady.  Can  you  blame  them  very 
much  if  thesy  go  out  and  escape  this  solitude  ? — they  are  at 
the  age,  you  know,  when  enjoyment  is  most  keen ;  the  thirst 
for  it  well-nigh  irrepressible " 


378  BREAIvIXG     DOWN. 

"And  then  they  go  off  to  those  disreputable  singing 
places  !  "  exploded  the  Squire,  not  allowing  him  to  finish. 

"  Singing  places,  yes ;  and  other  places.  Theatres,  con- 
certs, supper-rooms — oh,  I  cannot  tell  3''0u  a  tithe  of  the  temp- 
tation that  meets  them  at  every  turn  and  corner.  Man}^  and 
many  a  poor  young  fclloVv,  well-intentioned  in  the  main,  lias 
been  ruined  both  in  pocket  and  in  health  by  these  snares  ;  led 
into  them  at  first  by  dangerous  companions." 

"  Surely  all  do  not  get  led  away." 

"Xot  all.  Some  strive  on  manfully,  remembering  early 
precepts  and  taking  God  for  their  guide,  and  so  escape.  But 
it  is  not  the  greater  portion  who  do  this.  Some  marry  early, 
and  secure  themselves  a  home.  Which  is  best  ? — I  put  the 
question  only  in  a  wordly  point  of  vievr.  To  commit  the  im- 
prudence of  marrying,  and  so  bring  on  themselves  and  wives 
intolerable  perplexity  and  care  :  or  to  waste  their  substance  in 
riotous  living  V^ 

"  ril  1)0  shot  if  I  know  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  taking  off  his 
hat  to  rub  his  puzzled  head.  "  It's  a  sad  thing  for  poor  little 
children  to  be  pinched,  and  for  men  like  you  to  be  obliged  to 
work  yourselves  to  shatters  to  keep  them.  But  as  to  those 
others,  I'd  give  'em  all  a  night  at  the  treadmill.  Johnny  ! 
Johnny  Ludlow  ! " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  be  thankful  that  yoic  don't  live  in  London." 

I  had  been  thinking  to  myself  that  I  was  thankful  not  to 
be  one  of  those  poor  young  clerks  to  have  no  home  to  go  to 
when  work  was  over.  Some  fellows  would  rather  tramp  up 
and  down  the  muddy  streets  than  sit  alone  in  a  solitary  room ; 
and  the  streets,  according  to  Marks,  teemed  with  temptations. 
He  resumed. 

"  In  my  case  I  judged  it  the  reverse  of  imprudence  to  marry, 
for  my  wife  expected  a  fairly  good  fortune.  She  was  an  only 
child,  and  her  father  had  realised  enough  to  live  quietly  ;  say 
tliree  or  four  hundred  a  year.  Mr.  Stockleigh  had  been  a 
member  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  but  his  health  failed  and  he 


BREAKING     DOWN.  379 

retired.  Neitlier  I  nor  his  dangliter  ever  doubted — no,  nor 
did  lie  himself — that  this  money  must  come  to  us  in  time  " 

"  And  won't  it  ?"  cried  the  Squire. 

Marks  shook  his  head.  "  I  fear  not.  A  designing  servant, 
that  they  had,  got  over  him  after  his  daughter  left — he  was 
wealc  in  health  and  weak  in  mind — and  he  married  her.  Caro- 
line— my  wife — resented  it  naturally  ;  there  was  some  bicker- 
ing on  either  side,  and  since  then  they  have  closed  the  door 
against  her  and  me.  So  you  see,  with  no  prospect  before  us, 
there's  nothing  for  me  but  to  work  the  harder,"  he  concluded, 
with  a  kind  of  plucked-up  cheerfulness. 

"But,  to  do  that,  you  should  get  up  your  health  and 
strength,  Marks.  You  must,  you  know.  "What  would  you 
do  if  you  broke  down  f 

"  Hush ! "  came  the  involuntary  and  almost  affrighted 
answer.  "  Don't  remind  me  of  it,  sir  :  sometimes  I  dream  of 
it,  and  cannot  bear  to  awake." 

We  had  got  to  like  Marks  very  much  only  in  those  few  days. 
He  was  a  genth  man  in  mind  and  manners,  and  a  pleasant  one 
into  the  barga-n,  though  he  did  pass  his  days  adding  up 
figures  and  was  kept  down  by  poverty.  The  Squire  meant 
to  keep  him  for  a  month  :  two  months  if  he  would  stay. 

On  the  following  morning,  Tuesday,  during  breakfast-time, 
a  letter  came  for  him  by  the  post — the  first  he  had  had.  He 
had  told  his  wife  she  need  not  write  to  him,  wanting  to  have 
all  the  time  for  idle  enjoyment :  not  to  spend  it  in  answering 
letters. 

■'  From  home,  James '''  asked  Mrs.  Todhetley. 

"  No,"  said  he  smiling.  "  It  is  only  a  reminder  that  I  am 
due  to-morrow  at  the  house." 

"  Wliai  house  ?"  cried  the  Squire. 

"  Our  hoLise,  sir.     Brown  and  Co.'s." 

The  Squire  put  down  his  buttered  roll — for  Molly  had 
graciously  sent  in  hot  rolls  that  morning — and  stared  at  the 
Bpeaker. 


580  BEEAKrXG     DO^VN. 

""What  on  earth  are  you  talking  of?"  ne  cried.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  are  thinking  of  going  back  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  am— unfortunately.  I  must  get  up  to  London 
to-night." 

"  Wliy,  bless  my  heart  and  mind,"  cried  the  Squire,  getting 
np  and  standing  a  bit,  "you've  not  been  here  a  vreek  !  " 

"  It  is  all  the  leave  I  could  get,  Mr.  Todhetley :  a  week.  I 
thought  you  understood  that." 

"  Yon  can't  go  away  till  you  arc  cured,"  roared  the  Sqniro. 
"Why  didn't  you  go  back  the  day  you  came?  Don't  you 
talk  nonsense,  Mai'ks." 

"  Indeed  I  should  like  to  stay  longer,"  he  earnestly  said. 
"  I  wish  I  could.  Don't  you  see,  Mr.  Todhetley,  that  it  does 
not  lie  with  me  ?" 

"  Do  you  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  Marks,  and  teU  me 
this  one  ^veek's  rest  has  cured  you?  Come  1  What  on  earth! 
— are  you  turning  silly  ?" 

"  It  has  done  me  a  great,  great  deal  of  good " 

"  It  has  not,  Marks.  It  can't  have  done  it ;  not  real  good," 
came  tlie  Squire's  interruption.     "  One  would  think  you  were 

a  child." 

"  It  was  with  difficulty  I  obtained  this  one  week's  leave," 
he  explained.  "  I  am  really  required  in  the  office ;  my  ab- 
sence from  it  I  know  causes  trouble.  This  holiday  has  done 
60  mucli  for  me  that  I  shall  go  back  with  a  good  heart." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  Squire:  "suppose  you  take  French 
leave,  and  stay  ?" 

"  In  that  case  my  discharge  would  doubtless  arrive  by  the 
first  post." 

"Look  here  again  :  suppose  in  a  month  or  two  ycu  break 
down  and  liave  to  leave?     What  then  ?" 

"Crown    and    Co.   would   appoint   a   fresh   clerk    in   my 

place." 

"  Why  don't  Brown  and  Co.  keep  another  clerk  or  two,  so 
as  to  work  you  all  less  ?" 

Marks  smiled  at  the  very  idea.     "  That  would  increase  their 


BEEAKTXQ     DOWN.  381 

expenses,  Mr.  Todlietley.     Tliey  will  never  do  that.     It  is  a 
part  of  the  business  of  Brown's  life  to  keep  expenses  down." 

AVell,  Marks  had  to  go.  The  Squire  was  very  serious  in 
thinking  more  rest  absolutely  needful — of  vrhat  service  could 
a  week  be,  he  reiterated.  Down  he  sat,  wrote  a  letter  to 
Browji  and  Co.,  telling  them  his  opinion,  and  requesting  the 
favor  of  their  despatching  James  Marks  back  for  a  longer 
holiday.  Tk' '  he  sent  by  post,  and  they  would  get  -it  in  the 
morning. 

"No,  I'll  '-ot  trust  it  to  you,  Marks,"  he  said:  "you  might 
never  dcllv.'r  it.     Catch  an  old  bird  with  chaff !  " 

To  tLis  Matter  there  came  no  answer  at  all;  and  Mr.  Marks 
did  not  r/iwQ  back.  The  Squire  relieved  his  mind  by  calHng 
Brov/71  and  Co.  thieves  and  wretches — and  so  it  passed.  It 
muse  bd  remembered  that  I  am  writing  of  past  years,  v.'hcn 
hoh'/ays  were  not  so  universal  for  any  class,  clerk  or  mastei', 
a?5  t/iey  are  at  present.  Not  that  I  am  aware  whether  finan- 
ci'/.-s'  clerks  get  them  now. 

The  next  scene  in  the  drama  I  can  only  tell  by  hearsay.  It 
took  place  in  London,  whore  I  was  not. 


It  was  a  dull,  rainy  day  in  February,  and  Mrs.  Marks  sat  in 
her  parlor  in  Pimlico.  The  house  vras  one  of  a  long  row,  and 
the  parlor  just  about  large  enough  to  turn  in.  She  sat  by  the 
hrc,  nursing  a  little  two-year-old  girl,  and  thinking ;  and  three 
other  children,  the  eldest  a  boy  of  nine,  were  playing  at  the 
table — buildino;  houses  on  the  red  cloth  with  little  vrooden 
bricks.  Mrs.  Marks  was  a  sensible  woman,  understanding 
proper  management,  and  had  taken  care  to  bring  up  her  chil- 
dren not  to  be  troublesome.  She  looked  about  thirty,  and 
must  have  been  pretty  once,  but  her  face  was  faded  now,  her 
grey  eyes  had  a  sad  look  in  them.  The  chatter  at  the  table 
and  the  bricks  fell  alike  unheeded  on  her  ear, 

"  Mamma,  will  it  soon  be  tea-time  V 

There  was  no  answer. 


382  BREAJONQ     DOWN. 

"Didn't  yon  hear,  mamma?  Carry  asked  if  it  would  soon 
be  tea-time.     Yv^liat  were  yon  thinking  abont  ?" 

She  heard  this  time,  and  started  ont  of  her  reverie.  "  Yery 
soon  now,  Willy  dear.  Thinking  ?  Oh,  I  was  thinking  about 
your  papa." 

Ilcr  thoughts  were  by  no  means  bright  ones.  That  her 
Imsband's  health  and  powers  were  alike  failing,  she  felt  as 
sure  of  as  though  she  could  foresee  the  endinji;:  that  vras  soon 
to  come.  How  he  went  on  and  did  his  work  was  a  marvel : 
but  he  could  not  give  it  up,  or  bread  would  fail. 

The  week's  rest  in  the  country  had  set  Mr.  Marks  up  for 
some  months.  Until  tlie  next  autumn  he  worked  on  better 
than  he  had  been  able  to  do  for  some  time  past.  And  then 
he  failed  again.  There  was  no  particular  faihiig  outwardly, 
but  he  felt  all  too  conscious  that  his  over-taxed  brain  was  get- 
tino^  worse  than  it  liad  ever  been.  He  stru<2:o:led  on  ;  niuking 
no  sign.  That  he  shonkl  luive  to  resign  part  of  his  work  was 
a  fact  inevitable  :  he  must  give  up  the  evening  book-keeping 
to  enable  him  to  keep  his  more  important  place.  "  Once  1(^ 
ine  get  the  Christmas  wurk  over,"  thought  he,  "  and  as  soon 
as  may  be  in  the  JXew  Year,  I  will  resign." 

He  got  the  Christm;;s  work  over.  Very  heavy  it  was,  at 
botli  places,  and  nearly  did  for  him.  It  is  the  last  feather, 
you  know,  tliat  breaks  the  camel's  back:  and  that  work  lu'oke 
James  Marks'.  Towards  the  end  of  January  he  was  laid  up 
in  bed  with,  a  vi(.)lent  cold  that  settled  on  his  chest.  l]rov»-n 
and  Co.  had  to  do  without  him  for  eleven  days  :  a  calamity 
that — so  far  as  Marks  was  concerned — had  never  ha])pened  in 
Ih'own  and  Co.'s  cx])eriencc.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  city 
again,  feeling  shaken  and  dazed;  but  the  evening  labor  waa 
perforce  given  up. 

No  one  knew  how  ill  he  was :  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
liow  unlit  for  his  work,  how  more  incapable  of  it  he  vras  grow- 
ing day  by  day.  Ilis  wife  suspected  a  little.  She  knew  of  hia 
sleepless  nights,  the  result  of  over-taxed  nerves  and  brain, 


BREAKING     DOWN.  383 

"when  lie  would  toss  and  turn  and  get  np  and  walk  the  room ; 
and  dress  liimseK  in  the  morning  without  having  slept. 

"  There  are  times,"  he  said  to  her  in  a  kind  of  horror,  "  when 
I  cannot  at  all  collect  my  thoughts.  I  am  as  long  again  at 
my  work  as  I  used  to  be,  and  have  to  go  over  it  again  and 
again.  There  have  been  one  or  two  mistakes,  and  old  Brown 
asks  what  is  coming  to  me.  I  can't  help  it.  The  figures 
whirl  before  me,  and  I  lose  my  power  of  mind." 

"  If  you  could  but  sleep  well  I  "  said  Mrs.  Marks. 

"  Ay,  if  I  could.  The  brain  is  as  much  at  work  at  night  as 
day.  There  are  the  figures  mentally  before  me,  and  there  am 
r,  adding  them  up." 

"  You  should  see  a  clever  physician,  James.  Spare  the 
guinea,  and  go.     It  may  be  more  than  the  guinea  saved." 

Mr.  Marks  took  the  advice.  He  went  to  a  clever  doctor ; 
explained  his  position,  the  kind  of  work  he  had  to  do,  and 
described  his  symptoms.     "  Can  I  be  cured  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  so,"  said  the  doctor,  cheerfully,  without 
telling  him  that  he  had  gone  on  so  far  as  to  make  it  rather  a 
doubt.  "  The  necessary  treatment  is  very  simple.  Take 
change  of  scene  and  perfect  rest." 

"  For  how  long  ?" 

"Twelve  months,  at  least." 

"  Twelve  months !  "  repeated  Marks,  in  a  queer  tone. 

"  x\t  least.  It  is  a  case  of  absolute  necessity.  I  will  write 
yon  a  prescription  for  a  tonic.  You  must  live  well.  You 
have  not  lived  well  enough  for  the  work  yon  have  to  do." 

As  James  Marks  went  out  into  the  street  he  could  have 
laughed  a  laugh  of  bitter  mockery.  Twelve  months'  rest  for 
him  ?  The  doctor  had  told  h'm  one  thina: — that  had  he 
taken  the  rest  in  time,  a  very,  very  much  shorter  period 
would  have  sufficed.  "  I  wonder  how  many  poor  men  tliei'e 
are  like  mvself  in  London  at  this  moment,"  he  thoujrht,  "  who 
want  this  rest  and  cannot  take  it,  and  who  ought  to  live  bet- 
ter and  cannot  afford  to  do  it !  " 

It  was  altogetkei  so  very  hopeless  that  he  did  nothing,  ex- 


384  BREAiaXG     DOWN. 

cept  take  tlio  tonic,  and  he  continued  to  go  to  the  City  aa 
usual.  Some  two  or  three  weeks  had  elai:)3ed  since  then  :  he 
of  course  growing  worse,  though  there  was  notliing  to  show 
it  outvrardly :  and  this  was  the  end  of  February,  and  Mrs. 
Marks  sat  thinking  of  it  all  over  the  fire,  what  she  knew,  and 
guessing  at  what  she  did  not  know,  and  her  children  were 
building  houses  at  the  tabic. 

The  servant  came  in  with  the  tea-things,  and  took  the  little 
girl.  Only  one  servant  could  be  kept — and  hardly  that. 
Mrs.  Marks  had  made  her  own  tea  and  was  i:)ouring  out  the 
children's  milk-and-water,  when  thev  heard  a  cab  drive  up 
and  stop  at  the  door.  A  minute  after,  Mi*.  Marks  entered, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  one  of  his  fellow  clerks. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Marks,  I  have  brought  you  an  invalid,"  said 
the  latter  gaily,  making  light  of  it  for  her  sake.  "  lie  seems 
better  now.    I  don't  think  there's  much  the  matter  with  him." 

Had  it  come  ?  Had  what  she  been  dreading  come — that  he 
was  going  to  have  an  illness,  she  wondered.  But  she  was  a 
trump  of  a  wife,  and  showed  herself  calm  and  comforting. 

"  You  shall  both  of  you  have  some  tea  at  once,"  she  said, 
chcerfull3\     "  Willy,  run  and  get  more  tea-cups." 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Marks  had  been,  as  the  clerk  expressed 
it,  very  queer  that  day ;  more  so  than  usual.  lie  could  not 
do  his  work  at  all ;  had  to  get  assistance  continually  from  one 
or  the  other,  and  ended  by  falling  off  his  stool  on  the  floor,  in 
wlifit  he  called,  afterwards,  a  "  sensation  of  giddy  bewilder- 
ment." He  seemed  lit  for  nothing,  and  Mr.  Brown  said  he 
had  better  be  taken  home. 

That  day  ended  James  Maries'  work.  lie  had  broken  down. 
At  night  he  told  his  vrife  what  the  physican  had  said;  vv'hich 
he  had  not  done  before.     Slie  could  scarcely  hide  her  dismay. 

A  twch'cnioiith's  rest  for  him  !  What  would  become  of 
tlkciu  !  Failing  his  salary,  they  would  have  no  means  what- 
ever of  liN'ina:. 

"Oh,  ii'  my  father  had  but  acted  by  us  as  he  ought!  "  she 
mentally  cried.     "  James  could  have  taken  rest  in  time  dien. 


BREAKING     DOWN".  885 

and  all  would  have  been  well.  Will  he  help  us  now  it  has 
come  to  this  ?  "Will  sM  let  him  ? — for  it  is  she  who  holds 
him  in  subjection  and  steels  his  heart  against  us." 

Mr.  Stockleigli,  the  father,  lived  at  Sydenham.  She,  the 
new  wife,  had  taken  him  off  there  from  his  residence  in  Pim- 
lico  as  soon  as  might  be  after  the  marriage ;  and  the  daugliter 
had  never  been  invited  inside  the  house.  But  she  resolved  to 
go  there  now.  Saying  nothing  to  her  husband,  Mrs.  Marks 
started  for  Sydenham  the  day  after  he  was  brought  home  ill, 
and  found  the  place  without  trouble. 

The  wife,  formerly  the  cook,  was  a  big,  brawny  woman  with 
a  cheek  and  a  tongue  of  her  own.  When  Mrs.  Marks  was 
shown  in,  she  forgot  herself  in  the  sm-prise ;  old  habits  pre- 
vailed, and  she  dropped  a  curtsey. 

"  I  wish  to  see  papa,  Mrs.  Stockleigh." 

"  Mr.  Stockleigh's  out,  ma'am." 

"  Then  I  must  wait  until  he  returns." 

Mrs.  Stockleigh  did  not  see  her  way  clear  to  turn  this  lady 
from  the  house,  though  she  would  have  liked  to  do  it.  She 
made  a  show  of  hospitality,  and  ordered  wine  and  cake  to  be 
put  on  the  table.  Of  which  wine  Mrs.  Marks  noticed  with 
surprise,  she  drank /oj^r  glasses.  "  Now  and  then  we  used  to 
suspect  her  of  drinking  in  the  kitchen ! "  ran  thi'ough  Mrs. 
Marks'  thoughts.     "  Has  it  grown  upon  her  ?" 

The  garden  gate  opened,  and  Mr.  Stockleigh  came  through 
it.  He  was  so  bowed  and  broken  that  his  daughter  scarcely 
knew  him.     She  hastened  out  and  met  him  in  the  path. 

"  Caroline !  "  he  exclaimed  in  amazement.  "  Is  it  really 
you  ?     How  much  you  have  changed !" 

"  I  came  down  to  speak  to  you,  papa.  May  we  stay  and 
talk  here  in  the  garden  ?" 

He  seemed  glad  to  see  her,  rather  than  not,  and  sat  down 
with  her  on  the  garden  bench  in  the  sim.  In  a  quiet  voice 
she  told  him  all :  and  asked  him  to  lielp  her.  Mrs.  Stock- 
leigh had  come  out  and  stood  listening  to  the  treason,  some- 
what  unsteady  in  her  walk. 


88G  BREAKING    DOWN. 

"  I — I  would  lielp  you  if  I  could,  Caroline,"  he  sAid,  in 
hesitation,  glancing  at  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  but  jou  can't,  Stockleigh,"  she  put  in.  "  Our  own 
expenses  is  as  much  as  iver  we  can  manage,  Mrs.  Marks.  It's 
a  orful  cost,  living  out  here,  and  our  two  servants  is  the  very 
deuce  for  extravis^ance.  I've  changed  'em  both  ten  times  for 
others,  and  the  last  lot  is  always  worse  nor  the  first." 

"Papa,  do  you  see  our  position?"  resumed  Mi-s.  Marks, 
after  hearing  the  lady  patiently.  "  It  will  be  a  long  time  be- 
fore James  is  able  to  do  anything  again — if  he  ever  is — and 
we  have  not  been  able  to  save  money.  Wliat  are  we  to  do  ? 
Go  to  the  workhouse  ?     I  have  four  little  children." 

"  You  know  that  you  can't  help,  Stockleigh,"  insisted  Mr. 
Stockleigh's  lady,  taking  up  the  answer,  her  face  growing 
more  inflamed.  "  You've  not  got  the  means  to  do  anything : 
and  there's  an  end  on't." 

"  It  is  true,  Caroline ;  I'm  afraid  I  have  not,"  he  said — and 
his  daughter  saw  with  pain  how  tremblingly  subject  he  was 
to  his  wife.  "  I  seem  short  of  money  always.  How  did  you 
come  doAvn,  my  dear?" 

"  By  the  train,  papa.     Third  class." 

"Oii  dear!  "  cried  Mr.  Stockleigh.  "  My  health's  broken, 
Caroline.  It  is,  indeed,  and  my  spirit  too.  I  am  sure  I  am 
very  sorry  for  you.  Will  you  come  in  and  take  somo 
dinner  ?" 

"We've  not  got  nothing  but  a  bit  of  'ashed  beef,"  cried 
Mrs.  Stockleigh,  as  if  to  put  a  damper  upon  the  invitation. 
"  II im  and  me  fails  in  our  appetites  dreadful :  I  can't  think 
what's  come  to  'em." 

]\Irs.  Marks  declined  the  dinner :  she  had  to  get  back  to 
tlie  children.     That  any  kind  of  pleading  would  be  useless  M 
while  that  woman  held  the  sway,  she  saw  well.     "Good  bye, 
l^apa,"  she  said.    "  I  suppose  we  must  do  the  best  we  can  alone. 
Good  morning,  Mrs.  Stockleigh." 

To  her  surprise  her  father  kissed  her;  kissed  her  with 
quivering  lips.     "I  will  open  the  gate  for  you,  my  dear,"  he 


1 


BKEAKIN-Q     BOWS.  387 

said,  hastening  on  to  it.     As  she  was  going  through,  he  slipped 
a  sovereign  into  her  hand, 

"  It  will  pay  for  your  journey,  at  least,  my  dear.  I  am 
sorry  to  hear  of  your  travelling  third  class.  Ah,  times  have 
changed.  It  is  not  that  I  won't  help  you,  child,  but  that  I 
can't.  She  goes  up  to  receive  the  dividends,  and  keeps  me 
short.  I  should  not  have  had  that  sovereign  now,  but  it  is 
I  the  change  out  of  the  spirit  bill  that  she  sent  me  to  pay. 
Hush  !  the  money  goes  in  drink.  She  drinks  hke  any  hsh. 
Ah,  Caroline,  I  was  a  fool — a  fool !  Fare  you  well,  my 
dear." 

"  Fare  you  well,  dear  papa,  and  thank  you,"  she  answered, 
turning  away  with  brimming  eyes  and  an  aching  heart. 

After  resting  for  some  days  and  getting  no  better,  Jame/3 
Marks  had  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job.  lie  went  to  the  City 
house,  saw  Mr.  Brown,  and  told  him. 

"  Broken  down  !  "  cried  old  Brown,  hitching  back  his  wi^, 
as  he  always  did  when  put  out.  "  I  never  heard  of  such  non- 
sense.    At  your  age  !     The  thing's  incomprehensible." 

"  The  work  has  been  very  wearing  to  the  brain,  sir ;  and 
my  apphcation  to  it  was  close.  During  the  three-and-twenty 
years  I  have  been  with  you  I  never  had  but  one  week's  hoH- 
day :  the  one  last  spring." 

"  You  told  me  then  you  felt  like  a  man  breaking  down,  aa 
if  you  were  good  for  nothing,"  resentfully  spoke  old  Brown. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  told  you  that  I  believed  I  was  breaking  down 
for  want  of  a  rest,"  rejilied  Marks.     "It  has  proved  so." 

"  AV^hy,  you  had  your  rest." 

"  One  week,  sir.  I  said  I  feared  it  would  not  be  of  much 
use.     But — it  was  not  convenient  ft-r  you  to  allow  me  more." 

"  Of  course  it  was  not  convenient ;  you  know  it  could  not 
be  convenient,"  retorted  old  Brown.  "  D'ye  think  I  keep  my 
clerks  for  play,  Marks  ?  D'ye  suppose  my  business  will  get 
done  for  itself  ?" 

"  I  was  aware  myself,  sir,  how  inconvenient  my  absence 
would  be,  and  therefore  I  did  not  press  the  matter.     That 


888  BREAKINO     DOWN. 

one  week's  rest  did  me  a  wonderful  deal  of  service :  it  ena»' 
bled  me  to  go  on  until  now." 

Old  Brown  looked  at  liim.  "  See  here,  Marks — we  are 
sorry  to  lose  you  :  suppose  you  take  another  week's  change 
now,  and  try  what  it  will  do.  A  fortnight,  say.  Go  to  the 
sea-side,  or  somewhere." 

Marks  shook  his  head,  "  Too  late,  sir.  Tlie  doctors  tell 
me  it  will  be  twelve  months  before  I  am  able  to  work  again 
at  calculations." 

"  Oh,  my  service  to  you,"  cried  Mr.  Brown.  "  Why,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  if  you  cannot  work '?" 

"  Tliat  is  a  great  deal  more  than  I  can  sa}'',  sir.  Tlie  tliouglit 
of  it  is  troubling  my  brain  quite  as  much  as  work  ever  did. 
It  is  never  out  of  it,  night  or  day." 

For  once  in  his  screwy  life,  old  Bro-wn  was  generous.  He 
told  Mr.  Marks  to  draw  his  salary  up  to  the  day  he  had  left, 
and  he  added  ten  pounds  to  it  over  and  above. 


During  that  visit  I  paid  to  Miss  Deveen's  in  London,  when 
Tod  was  vsdth  the  AVhitneys,  and  Helen  made  her  hrst  curtsey 
to  the  Queen,  and  we  discovered  the  mal-doings  of  that  syren, 
^Mademoiselle  Sophie  Chalk,  I  saw  Marks.  Mrs.  Todhetley 
liad  given  me  two  or  three  commissions,  as  may  be  remem- 
bered :  one  amidst  them  was  to  call  in  Pimhco,  and  see  how 
Marks  was  getting  on. 

Accordingly  I  went.  "We  had  heard  nothing,  you  must 
understand,  of  what  I  have  told  above,  and  did  not  know  but 
ho  was  still  in  his  situation.  It  was  a  sliowery  day  in  April : 
just  a  twelvemonth,  by  the  way,  since  liis  visit  to  us  at  Dyke 
Manor.  I  found  the  liouse  out  readily;  it  was  near  to  Ebury 
Sl^reet ;  and  knocked.  A  young  lad  oi^ened  the  door,  and 
asked  mo  to  walk  in  the  parlor. 

"  You  are  Mr.  ]\[arks'  son,"  I  said,  rubl)ing  my  feet  on  the 
mat :  "  I  can  tell  by  the  likeness.     What's  your  niune  ?" 

"  WilUam.     Papa's  is  James." 


BKEAKING    DOWN.  389 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  He  is  ill,"  whispered  the  lad,  with  his  hand  on  the  parlor^ 
door  handle.  "  Mamma's  down  stairs,  making  him  some 
arrowi'oot." 

Well,  I  think  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather  when  I  knew  him — for  at  first  I  did  not.  He  was 
sitting  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  dressed,  bnt  wi-apped 
round  with  blankets  :  and  instead  of  being  the  James  Marks 
we  had  known,  he  was  like  a  living  skeleton,  with  check- 
bones  and  hollow  eyes.  But  he  was  glad  to  see  me,  smiled, 
and  held  out  his  hand  from  the  blanket. 

It  is  uncommonly  awkward  for  a  young  fellow  to  be  taken 
unawares  like  this.  You  don't  know  what  to  say.  I'm  sure 
I  as  much  thought  he  was  dying  as  I  ever  thought  anything 
in  this  world.  At  last  I  managed  to  stammer  a  word  or  two 
about  being  sorry  to  see  him  so  ill. 

"  Ay,"  said  he,  in  a  weak,  panting  voice,  "  I  am  different 
from  what  I  was  when  with  your  kind  people,  Johnny.  The 
trouble  I  foresaw  then  has  come." 

"  You  used  sometimes  1?o  feel  then  as  though  you  would 
not  long  keep  up,"  was  my  answer,  for  really  I  could  find 
nothing  else  to  say. 

He  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  felt  that  I  was  breaking  down — that 
I  should  inevitably  break  down  unless  I  could  have  rest.  I 
went  on  until  February,  Johnny,  and  then  it  came.  I  had  to 
give  up  my  situation  ;  and  since  then  I  have  been  dangerously 
ill  from  another  source — the  chest  and  lungs." 

"  I  did  not  know  your  lungs  were  weak,  Mr.  Marks." 

"  I'm  sure  I  did  not,"  he  said,  after  a  bad  fit  of  coughing. 
"  I  had  one  attack  in  January  through  catching  a  cold.  TJien 
I  caught  another  cold,  and  you  see  the  result :  the  doctor 
hardly  saved  me.  I  never  was  subject  to  take  cold  before. 
I  suppose  the  fact  is  that  when  a  man  breaks  down  in  one 
way  he  gets  weak  in  all,  and  is  more  liable  to  other  ailments.'* 

"  I  hope  you  will  get  better  as  the  warm  weather  coj  qgs  on. 
We  shall  soon  have  it  here." 


390  BREAKING     DOWN. 

"  Letter  of  this  cough,  perhaps :  I  don't  know :  but  not 
better  yet  of  my  true  ilhiess  that  I  think  most  of — the  over- 
taxed nerves  and  brain.  Oh,  if  I  could  but  have  taken  a  suf- 
ficient rest  in  time !" 

"  Mr.  Todhetley  said  you  ought  to  have  stayed  with  us  for 
tln'se  months.     lie  says  it  often  still." 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  solemnly  lifting  his  hand,  "  that  if  1 
could  have  had  entire  rest  then  for  two  or  three  months,  it 
would  have  set  me  up  for  life.     Heaven  hears  me  say  it." 

And  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  now  seemed  that  he  had  not ! 

"  1  don't  repine.  My  lot  seems  a  hard  one,  and  I  some- 
times feel  sick  and  weary  when  I  dwell  upon  it.  I  have  tried 
to  do  my  duty  :  I  could  but  keep  on  and  work,  as  God  knows. 
There  was  no  other  course  open  to  me." 

I  supposed  there  was  net. 

"  I  am  no  worse  off  than  many  others,  Johnny.  There  are 
men  breaking  down  every  day  through  incessant  application 
and  lack  of  needful  interludes  of  rest.  Well  for  them  if  their 
hearts  don't  break  Vv'ith  it !  " 

And,  to  judge  by  the  tone  he  spoke  in,  it  was  as  much  aa 
to  say  that  his  heart  had  broken. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  dwell  less  on  it  now,"  he  went  on. 
"Perhaps  it  is  that  I  am  too  weak  to  fell  so  keenly.  Or  that 
Christ's  words  are  being  indeed  realized  to  me:  '  Come  unto 
me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest.'  God  does  not  forsake  us  in  our  trouble,  Johnny,  once 
we  have  learnt  to  turn  to  Ilim." 

Mrs.  Marks  came  into  the  room  with  the  cup  of  arrowroot. 
The  boy  had  run  down  to  tell  her  I  was  there.  She  was  very 
pleasant  and  cheerful :  you  could  be  at  home  with  her  at  once. 
While  he  was  Avaitiug  for  the  arrowroot  to  cool,  he  leant  back 
in  his  chair  and  dropped  into  a  doze. 

"It  nnist  have  been  a  frightful  cold  that  he  caught,"  I 
whispered  to  her. 

"  It  was  caught  the  day  he  went  into  the  City  to  tell  Mr. 
Brown  he  must  give  up  his  situation,"  she  answered.    "  There's 


BREAKING     DO^'N.  391 

an  old  saying,  c-f  being  jDenny  wise  and  pound  foolish,  and 
that's  what  poor  James  was  that  day.  It  was  a  fine  morning 
when  he  started ;  but  the  rain  set  in,  and  when  he  left  Mr 
Brown  it  was  pouring,  and  the  streets  were  wet.  He  ought 
to  have  taken  a  cab,  but  did  not,  and  waited  for  a  ouiuibus. 
The  first  that  past  was  full ;  l)j  the  time  another  came  he  had 
got  wet  and  his  feet  were  soaking.  That  brought  on  a  return 
of  the  illness  he  had  had  in  January." 
"  I  hope  he  will  get  well." 
"  It  Kes  with  God,"  she  answered. 

They  made  me  promise  to  go  again.  "  Soon  Johnny,  soon," 
said  Mr.  Marks  in  a  kind  of  eagerness  that  was  suffffcstive. 
"  Come  in  the  afternoon  and  have  some  tea  with  me." 

I  had  meant  to  obey  literally  and  go  in  a  day  or  two  ;  but 
one  thing  or  other  kept  intervening,  and  a  week  or  ten  days 
passed.  One  Wednesday  Miss  Deveen  was  engaged  to  a  din- 
ner-party, and  I  took  the  opportunity  of  going  to  Pimlico. 
It  was  a  stormy  afternoon,  blowing  great  guns  one  minute, 
pouring  cats  and  dogs  the  next.  Mrs.  Marks  was  alone  in  the 
parlor,  the  tea-things  on  the  table  before  her. 

''  We  thought  you  had  forgotten  us,"   she  said  in  a  half 
whisper,  shaking  hands.     "  But  this  is  the  best  time  you  could 
have  come  ;  for  a  kind  neighbor  has  invited  all  the  children 
in  for  the  evening  and  we  shall  be  quiet,     James  is  worse." 
"  Worse  ! " 

"  At  least,  weaker.  He  cannot  sit  up  long  now  without 
great  fatigue.  He  lay  down  on  tlie  bed  an  hour  ago  and  has 
dropped  asleep,"  she.  added,  indicating  the  next  room.  "  I 
am  waiting  for  him  to  awake  before  I  make  the  tea." 

lie  awoke  then :  the  cough  betrayed  it.  She  went  into  the 
room,  and  presently  he  came  back  with  her.  K'o  doubt  he 
was  worse  !  my  heart  sank  at  seeing  him.  If  he  had  looked 
like  a  skeleton  before,  he  was  like  a  skeleton's  ghost  now. 
"  Ah,  Johnny !  I  knew  you  would  come." 
I  told  him  how  it  was  I  had  not  been  able  to  come  before, 
going  into  the  details.    It  seemed  to  amuse  him  to  hear  of  the 


392  BREAKING     DO^\^T. 

engagements,  and  I  descri])ed  Helen  Whitney's  Couit  :lre88 
as  well  as  I  could — and  Lady  "Whitney's — and  the  ser  ants' 
great  bouquets — and  the  ball  at  night.  lie  ate  one  bit  of  thiu 
toast  and  drank  three  cups  of  tea.  Mrs.  Marks  said  he  was 
always  thirsty. 

After  tea  he  had  a  most  violent  fit  of  coughing  and  thought 
he  must  lie  down  to  rest  for  a  bit.  Mrs.  Marks  came  back 
and  sat  with  me. 

"  I  hope  he  will  get  well,"  I  could  not  help  saying  to  her. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  fear  he  has  not  much  hope  of  it 
himself,"  she  answered.  "  Only  yesterday  I  heard  hini  tell 
Willy — that — that  God  would  take  care  of  them  when  he  was 
gone." 

She  could  hardly  speak  the  last  words,  and  broke  down 
with  a  sob.     I  wished  I  had  not  said  anything. 

"  He  has  great  trust,  but  things  troul)le  him  very  much," 
she  resumed.  "  Nothing  else  can  be  expected,  for  he  knows 
that  our  means  are  nearly  spent." 

"  It  must  trouble  you  also,  Mi*s.  Marks." 

"  I  seem  to  have  so  much  to  trouble  me  that  I  dare  not 
dwell  upon  it.  I  pray  not  to,  every  hour  in  the  day.  If  I 
gave  way,  what  would  become  of  them?" 

At  dark  she  lic-hted  the  candles  and  drew  do"wn  the  blinds. 
Just  after  that,  there  came  a  most  tremendous  knock  at  the 
front-door,  loud  and  long.  "  Kaughty  children  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  It  nnist  be  they." 

"  ril  go  ;  don't  you  stir,  Mrs.  Marks." 

I  o])cucd  the  door,  and  a  rush  of  wind  and  rain  seemed  to 
blow  ill  an  old  trentleman.  lie  never  said  a  word  to  me,  but 
went  banging  into  the  parlor  and  sank  down  on  a  chair  out  of 
breath. 

"  Papa ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Marks.     "  Papa ! " 

"  Wait  till  I  get  up  my  speech,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman.    "  She  is  crone." 

"  Who  is  gone  V^  cried  Mrs.  Marks. 

"  /S/iC.     I  don't  want  to  say  too  much  against  her  now  she's 


BEEAKCSTG     DOWN.  393 

gone,  Caroline  ;  but  she  is  gone.  She  had  a  bad  fall  down 
stairs  in  a  tipsy  fit  some  days  ago,  striking  her  head  on  the 
flags,  and  tlie  doctors  could  do  nothing  for  her.  She  died 
this  morning,  poor  soul ;  and  I  am  coming  to  live  with  you 
and  James,  if  you  will  have  me.  We  shall  all  be  so  com- 
fortable together,  my  dear." 

Perhaj)s  Mr.  Marks  remembered  at  once  what  it  implied — 
that  the  pressure  of  poverty  was  suddenly  lifted  and  she  and 
those  dear  ones  would  be  at  ease  for  the  future.  She  bent 
her  head  in  her  hands  for  a  minute  or  two,  keeping  silence. 

"  Your  husband  shall  have  rest  now,  my  dear,  and  all  that 
he  needs.     So  will  you,  Carohne." 

It  had  come  too  late.     James  Marks  died  in  May. 


It  was  about  three  or  fom'  years  afterwards  that  we  saw  the 
death  of  Mr.  Brown  in  the  Times.  The  newspapers  made  a 
flourish  of  trumpets  over  him ;  sajang  he  had  died  worth  two 
hundred  thousand  jDounds. 

"  There  must  be  something  wrong  somewhere,  Johnny,"  re- 
marked the  Squire,  in  a  puzzle.  "  /  sliould  not  like  to  die 
worth  all  that  money,  and  know  tliat  I  had  worked  my  clerks 
to  the  bone  to  get  it  together.  I  wonder  how  he  will  like 
meeting  poor  Marks  in  the  next  world  ?" 


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